


you will not take my heart, alive

by smithens



Series: you will not take my heart, alive [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Epistolary, Falling In Love, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Thomas Barrow Experiencing Happiness, Thomas Barrow Processing His Emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Three years pass by after the royal visit, and Thomas Barrow gets to actually live in them.





	1. 1927

**Author's Note:**

> **UPDATE (JANUARY 5, 2020)**
> 
> It turns out when you write things when you are on a lot of cold medicine and have only seen the primary source material for one of your characters twice — and the first time doesn't count — you make a lot of silly mistakes! It also turns out that I am American!!! The edits to this work are comprised of line-editing readability fixes (a couple of people commented on difficulty discerning dialogue and I myself have noticed some embarrassing syntax mistakes), Britpicking + making things more in line with the movie & the deleted scene we've all gone fuckwild over (I made some embarrassing mistakes and I'm embarrassed!), the addition of some bits I had wobbled over including the first time I posted this (but not the verbal assault in the first chapter) and a few additional changes now that I have a more solid grasp of how I see the characters and relationships (Miss Baxter no longer takes two years to let Thomas know she knows he has a serious boyfriend, for example.)
> 
> I watched Downton Abbey for the first time on September 21, 2019, watched the entire series the following week, saw the film again on September 29, and then wrote all of this in a week and a half during which I may as well have been on meth. So this is a much needed overhaul. I hope you all still like this just as much with the changes! 💞💞💞
> 
> **ORIGINAL NOTES (OCTOBER 5, 2019)**  
content warnings for the entire work include homophobia, child abuse, suicide, depression, minor character death, war, past sexual activity of dubious consent, psychological trauma, smoking, infidelity. most of this is implied/referenced, and most of it features primarily in chapters two and three. there is also consensual sexual content.
> 
> in short, this is m-rated for a reason.
> 
> please note also that this work uses custom styling for section headings and altering the appearance of correspondence! there are no changes to color or contrast, only to font style and size. i highly recommend turning on styles for this if you ordinarily have them off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **content warnings/notes:** homophobia, war, past dubcon, infidelity of the consensual sex variety.

For weeks and weeks he doesn't stray any further from the house than the village. Too risky. Not proper. 

_Discretion is a virtue,_ Richard had written. _In our line of work, one must always be conscious of one's reputation…_

He doesn't write like he's a working man out of York; that's for certain.

There was a time when Thomas would have been put off by it, thought it sanctimony and posturing, a man of his own roots lording it over him just because he works at Buckingham bloody Palace, but even after his evening inside of a jail cell he's never as harsh as he used to be. Not as afraid that everyone and their mother is out to get him.

He's not the boy he once was, impertinent with foreign diplomats and bold with domestic dukes, desperate to get a shred of recognition, a caress to the hand or lift of the brow.

Used to be his bite was worse than his bark.

Nowadays he doesn't have much of either, and he's not too sorry to lose them, though he has to wonder, sometimes, what the reckless, provocative Thomas of 1910 would think of the Thomas of 1927.

* * *

It helps, he guesses, that the so-called "industry advice" he gets from Richard comes _after_ what they shared in person — the drive back from York, the walk to the house. A night. A morning. A kiss. A token.

That the letters, though unbearably formal most times, are signed with affectionate adjectives behind the word "your" and in front of the word "friend". 

He doesn't know where they stand, is the thing, but he hopes that those words of caution are code for _I wouldn't want anything to happen to you._

And that's a sentiment that it would be incredibly stupid to ignore.

* * *

But Thomas is nothing if not incredibly stupid.

Even with Richard's correspondence on his mind, he gets a bad case of cabin fever a few months after the royal visit. It's funny, because in years past he'd never have minded much not leaving the area for so long. He took what he was given — half days in the village, between afternoon tea and dinner. Reluctantly, maybe, but it was what he signed up for.

That had once been, after all, the terms of the job: long hours, little time off, at the beck and call of lords and ladies; the idea being that if he kept at it he'd move up in the ranks, gain respectability and a taste of power on his way.

It hasn't quite worked out like that for him. 

Or at least, not in the direct fashion he'd hoped for when entering service as a boy. Sure, he's gotten promoted, and he's gotten some respect, though it was like chipping at an iceberg with a toothpick to get it, but power?

Nothing's changed much, there.

Those days were twenty years ago, though, or going on it. Times have changed slowly, but the modern Downton is at best far beyond the Downton of 1910. Half the staff don't even live on the estate anymore, let alone in the house. Those who remain have more privileges, higher pay, more time off. 

The consequence of this is whispers of layoffs, a suspicion that this newfound freedom was to get her Ladyship and company accustomed to independence in advance of further reductions. Thomas may be at the top of the servants' pyramid, but he only has been for about a year and a half — and he learned his bloody lesson this summer about what that actually counts for with the people upstairs.

Very, very little.

But he'll take what he can get now, too, even if in the back of his mind he knows that his future is less secure for the opportunity.

* * *

The itch to get out of the house, out of the _village_, only worsens, and so Thomas Barrow heads into York on his first regular full day off with a twist in his gut: glad to finally scratch at the feeling, but with a lingering sense of… of something. 

Whether it's the memory of the inside of a jail cell or the knowledge that he wouldn't have been out and about like this a few years ago, wouldn't have bothered taking two trains or care in his appearance, wouldn't have felt even a shred of anticipation, he can't say. Maybe it's the echo of Richard Ellis in his ear, admonishing, and a hint of guilt that he's selfishly ignoring it instead of taking the words to heart.

He's been yearning to dance again for the last three months.

* * *

Of course, once he's actually in York he knows full well how unreasonable the idea is. For one thing, he wouldn't know where to start looking.

The day passes mostly uneventfully, but the weather is nice and the town bustling. He sees what he didn't have a chance to this summer, because he's got a different perspective than he did before. Someone he could love grew up here.

It's all a welcome change, really.

And, after getting over his disappointment in himself, he makes sure it is a change, keeping to different streets and neighborhoods from when he was last here, _circumspect,_ even if in the back of his mind he still wants to be reckless, wants to make eyes at every man that passes and listen at every storehouse door.

But he never does get his way in these things, does he? Even after he's given up looking for it, even as he holds himself back, trouble always seems to find him.

* * *

A different street, a different pub, and Chris Webster just so happens to be there anyway. 

He'd almost made it through a day out without anything interesting happening. It's lucky — after years of practice in dining and drawing rooms, Thomas is an expert in hiding his surprise. 

Still, as he pays for his pint he catches out of the corner of his eye a gesture toward the exit, and once his hat is on he follows, aware of the keen eyes of the barkeep on his back.

The door seems to slam behind him. He takes a moment to light himself a cigarette, then offers one to Webster. It's accepted.

"Mr Webster, I don't want to get into any trouble," he starts after his first drag, in the clipped, polite tones of a high society butler, not at all the eager, friendly voice his companion would recall, but he's cut off.

"Just a walk."

"Yeah."

"Don't want any trouble neither," says Webster under his breath, "not ever for you."

Thomas swallows the curious feeling that gives him.

"I was about to head to the station, anyway." The words coming out of his mouth sound more authentic this time.

They fall into step together, near but not touching, passing from street lamp to street lamp and tipping their hats at working class ladies who pass. It's a suffocating mask, but one that Thomas imagines they're both accustomed to. Webster more than him, it looks like.

"Mr Barrow," he says, breaking their long silence once they're nearer to the station and the town center. "That is, Thomas, if I can —"

A bit of a wonder they remember one another's names, he thinks to himself, and he tries to give an unsullied smile. "Thomas is all right."

But then, if they can't call one another by forenames now, having stepped on each other's feet for an hour, when can they?

"And call me Chris, then. Hope you know how sorry I am about…"

A man and woman who must be about their age pass by arm in arm, she with short hair and a dress that stops just at her knees, he with a dragging leg and walking stick.

An exemplary picture of their generation if there ever was one.

They must both be struck by it, because for a moment it seems as if Chris has forgotten what he was saying.

"…about the whole business," he finishes eventually.

Thomas nods. "I got myself out before the night was over," he mutters. "Was gotten out, I mean."

He hasn't quite let himself think about everyone who didn't have a connection with such an influential calling card. Not fully, not in the way they deserve, because it's terrifying to reckon with.

He thinks about them before he falls asleep every night, fleeting.

He thinks, _that could have been me._

He thinks, _none of them deserve it_ and _I'll bet they were better men than I am_ and _God how many fucking lives were ruined over something so innocent —_

Chris's expression changes; it'd be a smirk if it wasn't so damn sad at the same time.

"Right."

"Did you…" 

He doesn't know how to finish the question. That brush with the police was the closest he's ever really come to facing legal repercussions for his actions, for _any_ of his actions, and he'd been rescued in the nick of time. He was foolish not to know what he was up against.

Except that he did know.

He just wasn't bloody thinking.

"I'll be just fine, Thomas," says Chris, soft and smooth. "Just fine."

"I ought to be sorry for —"

"For giving me the best time I'd had in months, eh? You don't ought to be sorry for nothin'. I only wish it hadn't been… wish I'd met you sooner."

"But the other lads —"

"We know what we risk," Chris returns shortly. 

They're silent again, and Thomas has the sense that he's running out of time. "Not going to say it was worth it," he manages to say, "but…" 

"But?"

"But it was the best time I'd had in months, myself." In years, more like, possibly the best time he'd had ever, although the evening had been soured by its interruption and then eclipsed by what followed.

But he doesn't need to share that.

Chris laughs, then tosses and stamps out his cigarette. Thomas knows a cue when he gets one, and does the same — it's not as difficult as it used to be, stopping.

"Pity. Should've had the sense to ask you home with me after the first song."

His shock must show on his face, and he almost falls off the curb for not paying attention, but Chris perseveres. Thomas feels him bump their elbows together, and though he's trying to mind their surroundings he knows he's being stared at.

"Would you have liked that, Thomas?"

Liked it. 

He'd have been on top of the bloody world.

"Yeah," he says slowly, "yeah, I – very much," part of him cursing the aforementioned lack of thought on Chris's part and the rest of him guiltily recalling that he's not exactly unattached anymore. "But I'd've refused."

Before the remark can do too much emotional damage, he adds, "work in service," hoping it will soften the unsaid _and I'll refuse tonight, too._

"Blimey, there's blokes still work in service?"

He can't tell if that's meant to be a joke, but it's no use being insulted, not now.

"Going on my nineteenth year," he says, proud and embarrassed by this at the same time. "With a bit of a… an interruption for a few, course."

Chris nods. 

"Reckon you'd be pressed to find a man who hasn't got an interruption in his work history."

They keep on walking.

"Medical corps," Thomas offers.

"Line infantry."

But it seems that's all he wants to say about it, and Thomas doesn't blame him. He never brings it up, not really, and isn't sure why he has now. The sight of the couple jolted him a bit, perhaps, and aside from that… curiosity, maybe.

He wants to know more about his sort of people.

"What do you do now?"

"I'm at the railway. Pointsman."

He'd never have guessed — would have thought manufacturing, or maybe something to do with cars, although that's not exactly more common than railwork, especially down here. But he'd known it was work with his hands.

From their evening together Thomas remembers that his are calloused, that his arms are wiry and strong despite his lean build. He'd led the whole time, really, carrying them through Charlestons and Tangos with relative ease, recovering from Thomas's stumbles and missteps in neat time. The occupation fits.

"Dangerous work, isn't it."

There's probably a joke to be made about switching tracks somewhere, but he's not sure he ought to be the one making it. 

Didn't he used to know how to flirt, once? Whatever happened to that?

"If you're not careful. Been at it a few years."

There is a suggestion in those words somewhere, and a thrill runs down his spine.

_You are going to the station,_ he tells himself. _You are supposed to be bloody leaving._

"Sometimes hear about… casualties."

Chris shrugs.

"Any day might be my last, see. Why not have a good time, meanwhile."

Thomas looks at him.

_Stop wanting this. Stop wanting this. Stop wanting this._

"Be my damn _self_."

The words have a bitter edge, but he's looking at Thomas with a sly smile. A sly, handsome, interested smile, and he went years without anyone looking at him like that until this summer, and sure, someone else has looked at him that way, but it's not like he's going to stick around, Thomas _knows better_ than to think he's going to fucking stick around —

_You know you want to._

Oh, hell, does he ever.

* * *

"War wound," he says, trying to be casual, "I'll leave it on, if you don't mind."

Chris nods. "My right foot's messed up something awful."

Thomas nods in return.

"God, look at us," he says after a moment, almost laughing, because it should be awkward and it isn't, because they both understand. Chris smiles. 

"World in't like it used to be," he says, and then they're kissing again.

Chris is more gentle than Thomas expected, and when they break apart, he feels warm all over.

He swallows.

"Do… do you want me to…" He tries to make some sort of gesture to get his meaning across, but he ends up just sort of waving his hand and feeling silly.

Chris looks confused, for a moment, then surprised, and then he smiles. "If you're up for it."

He's up for anything, at this point, he'll settle for what he can get, but if that's on offer he's damn well going to take him up on it.

* * *

"Can't wait 'til the last train, I've a change at Thirsk."

Chris is pulling off his braces with his teeth, his grip firm on Thomas's waist.

"You'll make it."

* * *

They lie in his bed, after, mindful of the clock on the side table. 

"Wish you could stay," Chris murmurs against his head, and despite how pleasant it all was, there's a rock in Thomas's stomach.

"Me, too," he replies, honest, but this can't go on, this can't go on, he was stupid to come to York and he was stupid to come _here_ and he knows what he has to say. "I like you."

There's a kiss to the top of his head, then, and a noncommittal hum that may as well be a frown.

God, he probably knows what's coming, doesn't he.

"I do," he adds. 

"But," Chris prompts, neutral, and Thomas gets dry in the mouth.

"I've met someone," he confesses, and his voice doesn't sound as hoarse as it feels like it should.

"Aha."

But they don't move.

"Thought you were gonna say you were married."

Thomas shrugs, more confused by this unexpectedly lukewarm reaction than he's willing to let on, and Chris presses another kiss to his crown. "He's a lucky man, him."

That makes him sit up. Chris isn't smiling, exactly, but he's got some light in his eyes and no malice on his lips, and _what is he supposed to make of that._

"You don't…"

"God, Thomas, 'course I mind. But we take what we can get, don't we?"

_Why did you fucking do this,_ Thomas thinks to himself, _why do you always fucking do this._

He kisses him for the last time, chaste, and then rises to put his clothes back on.

* * *

On the train to Thirsk he leans back in his seat and wonders what on earth had come over him.

* * *

The third class car on a Friday night is not exactly host to respectable folk.

Not that he's so respectable himself, but he's at least sober, which must count for something.

Sober.

God, he did that while he was fucking _sober._ What the hell is wrong with him.

There's a group of boys in rugby garb stirring up trouble, the main instigator an admittedly handsome young man who seems to have the rest of them wrapped around his finger, and though instinct tells him to stay out of it, that nothing good ever comes from playing white knight, ever, and he's not exactly in a position to be protecting anyone at the moment… 

Their victim is someone who looks a lot like the hallboy he hired a year ago.

And the things they are saying are things he has heard before.

* * *

_Somehow,_ for _some_ reason, that he could _never_ have _possibly_ guessed, it doesn't go well. 

_Why is it so obvious_, he asks himself, _how can everyone tell._ It's not as though he goes around with a tag reading 'queer' pinned onto his jacket, and if he says so himself, he's not especially effeminate, either.

And yet perfect strangers can read him like an open book, and they never quite like his prose.

* * *

The boy gets off at Pilmoor.

As he does, Thomas changes carriages.

* * *

On the train to Downton he takes out his watch and squeezes the silver fob in his hand until it hurts.

* * *

He comes through the back door a bit later than he would have liked and is greeted by Miss Baxter, who seems to be wrapping up some sewing. As far as he can tell, she's the only one still downstairs.

"Did you have a nice time, Mr Barrow?" she asks him.

Sometimes the bite rises up in him again.

"That's my business, isn't it," he says.

Her frown makes him change his tune — "Sorry. Did and didn't."

Her face softens. He forces a smile.

For a moment, he feels like he's twelve years old again and trying to convince her for the thousandth time that _I fell on the stairs at school_ and _you've seen me play rugby you know what it's like_ and _I just slipped on the ice is all _and _got hit during the cricket match but we won though I got the most runs let's talk about that instead_. 

He takes a shaking breath.

The sensation passes; he fiddles with his glove instead of looking at her.

There's an awkward pause.

Their relationship has improved by leaps and bounds over the past few years, and she's smart enough to know now when it's worth pushing and when it isn't. He's never more grateful for that intuition than at times like these.

"Best to focus on the 'did', then, I think. Goodnight."

"Night."

* * *

He can't make himself get out of bed in the morning. It's not that he hasn't slept well — the truth is he's slept wonderfully, probably because he didn't have to bother to get himself off, even after the altercation at the end of the evening — it's that he's unwilling to face the fact that he really oughtn't hide his actions from the person who matters.

That he _can't_ hide his actions from the person who matters.

He's telling himself he's lazy; what he actually is is nervous, so he berates himself and gets up after all.

To his surprise, he's got more time before breakfast than he normally does. 

Enough time to pen a letter.

* * *

_Dear Mr Ellis,_

_I'm sorry to say tha_

Probably shouldn't open with the confession of infidelity, actually, and even if he was going to, that's a hell of a way to do it. How was he thinking he'd finish that sentence? 'Sorry to say that I put my mouth on another man's cock'? 'Sorry to say that I let someone else fuck me'? 'Sorry to say that I'm a fucking idiot and I never deserved you here's this back let's never speak again and I'll keep being lonely forever'?

In his very first letter, written on the train to London, he'd included the ticket stub and everything, Richard had said, _I never put into writing that which I wouldn't share with my mother._

It had brought up some unpleasant memories.

He crumples the page up and starts again, makes it three sentences before trashing that attempt, too.

Eventually, Thomas settles for reusing his own words, adds a hint of detail to indicate that the nature of his error was rather more venereal than dancing this go around, and if he takes up a bit too much of the page with self-flagellation to top it off, well, that's that. 

When they meet again, he can tell him the whole truth, explain how amazing it felt to be wanted, to look into another man's eyes and see desire reflecting his own, to feel known and understood. Just a normal man having normal sex, for once, not a means to an end, not fodder for blackmail, not a quick, loveless thing in a goddamn trench with a married man. 

Mutual attraction is a hell of a drug.

It strikes him that Richard is probably a veteran of that feeling, looking like he does and being how he is, and that he probably never acted on it when he was bloody promised to another person.

If they are promised to one another. 

He thinks they must be. They haven't yet called their relationship anything, though, all he's got to go off of is a gift and a handful of letters that he's assumed have more meaning between the lines than on the actual page, but it's not as though it'd be the first time a man's put him on.

The letter gets a postscript:

_Please burn this._

* * *

Some days later, long enough that he'd been getting worried, there's something for him in the morning post.

_Mr Barrow,_

_I admit to have found your letter disheartening…_

Well, he certainly can't read this one in front of the others. Back into the envelope it goes, and he tucks it into his breast pocket, anxiety curling in his chest. Baxter is looking at him with a motherly, concerned expression, and he pretends he doesn't see it. 

Pretending is easier these days. Now that he's actually been happy, he knows what to go for to fake it.

* * *

Once in bed for the night he brings the letter back out, heart pounding.

Richard isn't scolding, not really, but he's incredibly honest. Still, Thomas hates rejection, hates knowing he's done wrong even when it's his own fault, and the first page of the letter — there are four sheets, front and back, the most he's ever gotten from him, and the penmanship looks frantic to boot — makes him want to toss the whole thing aside and stew in self-reproach.

After taking a minute to put his face in his hands, he keeps reading.

It's not only longer, it's wordier than their previous correspondence. Richard's style until now has been educated, certainly, he has a way with words that Thomas doesn't, but he's also direct. Different to how he was in person, with all of those turns of phrase.

Certain lines and phrases jump out at him; if he had to guess, Richard hadn't thought about some of what he was writing until he put the pen to paper.

_…I hope you know, however, that I am sympathetic because I cannot pretend that I have never experienced a similar lapse in judgment, not because I am unhurt by your choices…_

_…I suppose in the interest of fairness I have to tell you that I've made many a grave mistake before, myself. My desire that we be cautious arises from experience, Thomas. If you have been "silly," as you so quaintly like to put it, and to be frank you seem to have a very broad definition of the word, then at one point in my life especially I was a downright fool…_

_…it is not as though you and I had an agreement, after all…_

_…if you do feel the same, I'd like to ask that we form one. It would please me greatly if we were to be true to one another…_

With every line he is more explicit.

The result is a far cry from circumspect.

In fact, it's by far the most direct expression of interest Richard has ever given him, even with the ambling nature of the prose as a whole.

More direct than what happened when he was at Downton, even. He's lucky he's alone — he's definitely blushing, definitely wouldn't have to put on a show of looking happy.

The last page is a sheet of its own, nothing on the back. The cursive here is tidier, the ink a slightly different color, and Thomas wonders if he'd taken a break before finishing the thing.

_…but whether we make a promise or not, I suppose that I'm happy for you, now you know what it is to catch a man's eye._

_Never doubt again that you can, Thomas, because you've certainly caught mine._

_Ever your steadfast friend,_

_R. Ellis_

_P.S. I cannot risk posting this from the Palace and so am waiting for my afternoon off. As you said, please burn after reading._

* * *

But he cuts out the last two lines, minding not to include the signature, before he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ORIGINAL NOTES**  
(1) this is my 2nd downton abbey fic and i'm still wracked with nerves, shrug  
(2) all of my da fics are apparently going to be in this scene separation style?  
(3) i did write out almost the entire train scene but then i decided that no one would want to read that and i didn't especially want to finish writing it, but i also didn't feel like i could leave it out. so now it's sort of just a Homophobia Exists bit, which.... oh well. sorry.  
(4) speaking of trains, i looked up the london northeastern railway train times from the ye olde 1940s prior to the train company changes in the uk, and the change thomas makes is accurate at least to.... 20 years after this fic is set.... if you assume that downton is sort of triangulated between ripon and thirsk. but then in the series it sounds like there are direct trains to york, maybe? who knows. in the next chapter there will be even more trains. delightful  
(5) additional sorry @ people who hate cheating but It Gets Better™. ie: this is the last of it, there is no more.  
(6) i literally have no clue what season/month/etc anything in this series is set in unless they're shooting at things or it's christmas, so just assume that the visit was early enough in the year for Several Months to pass and it... still be 1927. right. ok.  
(7) the title of this comes from [you will not take my heart alive by joanna newsom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSB23AsCook), which in my interpretation has quite a lot to do with the battle against death and depression and loveless existence, which i feel is applicable here.  
(8) to get a bit more personal, as a lesbian who's spent a lot of time being bitter and hopeless, i super identify with the entire thomas plotline in this show and his presence in the film just like, broke me (mostly in a good way), so this fic definitely has a bit of me processing that.  
(8) thank you for reading & i hope to wrap up/post the next two chapters within the next 2 weeks!


	2. 1928

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **content warnings/notes:** descriptive discussion of suicide and suicide attempts, implied/referenced: depression, illness, past dubcon, war, homophobia, [and smoking](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ArsonMurderAndJaywalking). there is semi-explicit fully consensual sexual content. 
> 
> given all the above, this chapter is, a: probably emotional whiplash, and b: probably best read alone.

## 1928

* * *

Days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months, and Thomas falls into a routine again.

There's plenty been going on at Downton Abbey, upstairs and down — a funeral, a wedding, a baby. Lady Edith is back in the house for some weeks after the birth of her son (or as they've been saying downstairs, her _"first child"_) which keeps Anna occupied; Daisy and Andy have their honeymoon at the farm, making the kitchen the most quiet it's been since the war; Molesley finally figures out what's good for him and ends up in an engagement with Baxter, who's happier than Thomas has ever seen her.

Marigold talks up a storm now she's older and back to visit, George at last gets too big to carry, Caroline can walk now, and Sybbie has a new governess. (The governess, until discreetly redirected, takes a shine to him.) 

Lady Mary takes the reins of the house with more gusto after the death of the Dowager, and everyone begins to wonder if maybe layoffs were never on the table after all.

If he was going to make a list of all that's happened in the year since His and Her Majesty were around, he'd need several sheets of paper.

So there's much to do, and he keeps busy. The gloom he'd felt in everything he touched for years on end begins to dissipate.

He writes to Richard almost daily.

He's not happy, exactly, but he's no longer fighting off listlessness. What it is, really, is that he loves somebody — and for the first time in a long, long time, it's somebody who loves him back.

* * *

_14 June 1928_

_Dear Mr Barrow,_

_It's looking as though I'll have two days off next month, on the tenth and eleventh. I'll be in touch when I know more. Perhaps you can arrange to come up to London?_

_Your constant friend,_

_R. Ellis_

* * *

Sometime over the following fortnight the time off is settled, and Thomas wastes no time in making his arrangements.

He's fairly sure that Mrs Hughes thinks less of him for the asking, but Lady Mary is (unexpectedly) approving, so she can hardly voice her displeasure. Aside from four days last year — the royal visit included — and two in '26, he's not exactly taken much time off beyond half-days since his promotion.

Besides, it says more about Carson than him, that he worked at Downton for half a century without a real holiday. That's not loyal; it's daft.

* * *

_6 July 1928_

_Dear Mr Barrow,_

_Just to be sure: you will arrive at King's Cross at 0715. That isn't the departure time out of York? _

_Your devoted friend,_

_R. Ellis_

* * *

_8 July 1928_

_Dear Mr Ellis,_

_There's a night service, so I'm getting that. I'll put up in a pub in York. Don't ask how I managed to work out three nights off with her Ladyship, can't believe it myself. Didn't even have to lie._

_Just between us though, didn't so much tell the truth, either._

_Yours_

_Thomas Barrow_

* * *

Miss Baxter walks him to the village station.

"You'll be all right getting back?"

She tilts her head, a twitch in her lips. "Yes, Joseph will walk with me."

It still takes him about five seconds every time she says _Joseph_ to remember that this is Molesley they're talking about.

"He insisted," she adds.

"As would I," he tells her, and it's not as much of a joke as he's trying to make it sound.

But as always, she understands what he's getting at, and she smiles, teasing. "Yes, it's a very dangerous walk this time of year, isn't it."

In broad daylight, she means.

He coughs, sheepish, and he can't entirely think of what to say — the train's just arrived, they've got a bit of time, and even if they miss it there'll be another one in half an hour. He's only going to York.

Miss Baxter solves the problem for him by taking his hands in her own, insistent. After two years, he doesn't flinch anymore; not when it's her, at least. She looks him in the eyes. "Be safe," she murmurs, grave. "Please."

And for a moment he's annoyed, and bitter, because those words wouldn't mean the same thing if she were saying them to anyone else heading off to go meet someone they fancied, but the fact is that she cares and she's right and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't terrified out of his mind, so he nods and says, "I will be."

* * *

True to form, he alights from the train to find himself standing on the platform wondering what the hell he's actually doing.

_...As for your suggestion that we meet in Westminster, I hope I don't offend you by calling it ludicrous. Of course I shall collect you from the platform at King's Cross. As you're taking the trouble of such an early train I should hate to burden you with finding your way around London on your own…_

He's a grown man, and it isn't like he's never been to London, and for a moment, reading the lines over at breakfast with his hand cautiously shielding the page, he had, in fact, been offended. But the feeling was soon replaced by a thrill that he was to be "collected" by anyone.

Now that he's actually here, though, he's racked with nerves. The more peculiar of Richard's words are repeating over and over in his head.

_...besides all that, I daresay we won't be passing much time in Westminster at all…_

Which doesn't quite make sense with Richard's earlier proposal that they play tourist, even though he'd rejected it himself, but he's certainly got his reasons. The last thing either of them need is for someone to suspect something, and mixing up work and personal life is risky enough when you don't work for the king.

Risky enough, too, when the personal life is only blandly distasteful, like when unmarried maids go out with boys from the village unchaperoned, as opposed to genuinely illegal, like… well, like what this is.

_...but not to worry, I've lodged at the establishment before. Indeed, I think it will be quite suited to our purposes..._

And what purposes those are, he can only guess, but in the back of his mind he sure is _hoping_.

* * *

"Good day, Mr Barrow!" 

The call comes from behind him, and when he turns around it's all he can do to keep from flinging himself into Richard's arms like a scene from one of those armistice illustrations, some delicate high class girl greeting her beau back from the front.

It is, of course, far more acceptable for Miss So-and-so to embrace Lieutenant Such-and-such on a platform in King's Cross than for butler Thomas Barrow to throw himself at valet Richard Ellis in the same place.

As it is, they walk toward one another slowly, professionally, restrained, but once within reach Richard gently takes his arm and says in an amused undertone, "silly boy," grabbing his satchel for him.

"Not going to let me forget that, are you," quips Thomas. He can feel the blush rising in his cheeks.

"_My_ silly boy."

And now he must be red as a tomato.

* * *

"Two entire days off," says Thomas, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. They're headed, apparently, to an inn in Lambeth, and the long walk from the station gives them plenty of time to chat. It would be quicker, they both know, to take a tram, but it would also be less private. "Some blokes get that every week."

"Some blokes pay rent," says Richard. But he's smiling.

He smiles a lot, Richard.

"So they do."

"That's life in service for you, Mr Barrow."

"So it is."

"Do you ever think of leaving?" Richard adds casually, but nevertheless in a searching tone that Thomas finds uncharacteristic of him. 

They never delve too deep about work in their letters — the day to day, but not the big picture.

He stares him down a bit, trying to gauge the purpose of his question, to guess where this is all going, but he's implacable again, wearing a handsome, satisfied expression that reveals nothing except how charming its bearer is.

It is very attractive.

Their eyes lock, and then they both look forward again. Not wise to be so distracted while out, even at ten thirty in the morning in London daylight. Big city; plenty to be cautious of.

Thomas tells himself that's the reason, at least.

"Used to be all I wanted," he replies eventually, eyes downcast. He kicks a stone lying in their path with a bit too much intention; it skids along and then rolls into the gutter. 

Richard nudges into his shoulder affectionately, brushes their fingers together as though by accident, but when he breaks it off they're further apart than they were before.

Hiding in plain sight.

"And now?"

"And now…" He can feel himself scowling. _Calm down_, he thinks to himself, _it's not him you're angry at_. Hopefully, however way his face settles doesn't make him look crude or uncomfortable. "Now, Mr Ellis, I don't know what I want."

* * *

The room has two single beds, a side table squeezed between one of them and the window, a lamp, a wardrobe with a mirror, and a sink; all crammed in with only just enough room for two grown men to breathe. Washrooms are down the hall; board, which Richard has told him they won't be taking advantage of, is available on the ground floor.

One of the beds is disheveled. Richard must have stayed the night prior.

Thomas closes the door behind them, trying to avoid showing his disappointment at the proposed sleeping arrangements, tells himself that just because he wanted him once doesn't mean he wants him again, even after months in correspondence and mutual declarations of commitment. They don't actually know each other in that way, not properly. Not like he wants to — but he's not going to have a chance to here, he sees that now. It was stupid of him to have expected otherwise. He's been stupid in all of this, really. Never had anyone for longer than a night. Doesn't know what to expect, now that they're _promised_.

Richard hangs up his coat and Thomas's bag on the wall hooks before crossing in three strides to draw the curtains over the window. 

Thomas takes a deep breath. He should say something, he thinks, and opens his mouth to, but at that moment Richard turns round and all the thoughts in his head vanish.

In the blink of an eye they're kissing.

Richard has his palms on his cheeks and is pressing their lips together like his life depends upon it, and although Thomas freezes at first — _how did he get back over here so fast?_ — he's soon relaxed enough to put his hands in his hair and return the kiss with passion. It seems he's still wanted after all, and by God, does he still want.

He finds himself with his back against the door, exhilaration pulsing through his veins.

This time, they are not interrupted.

* * *

One bed has barely enough room for both of them, but they make do, Thomas on his side propped above Richard on his back. 

He runs his hand along Richard's chest, letting the soft fabric of his undershirt catch beneath his fingertips. The resulting smile makes his head spin. 

"You haven't got any idea how hard it's been for me to resist you."

Thomas raises his eyebrows, because it didn't seem very difficult just now: they were kissing, then they were undressed, then they were on the bed. Richard, bless him, ended it the second Thomas had tried to palm him through his briefs.

He's still hard at this point, but Thomas is trying his best not to look, lest he find himself in a similarly awkward position.

"So don't resist me, then."

Richard huffs. "It's hardly noon."

"Fine, fine."

He lays his palm upon Richard's chest, can feel his heart beating in the heel of his hand.

"'ve been kicking myself for not closing that blasted door ever since I last saw you," Richard adds.

"What would've happened if you had?"

The question flusters him, and he breaks their eye contact, shifts his position a tad. Thomas is once again tempted to see how he's reacting, but he's trying to be good, or at least polite, so he holds off — funny how asking one question makes him feel so powerful.

If he was still a boy he'd be milking it for all it was worth, ever the strategist, one play ahead of the game at all times and desperate to remain in charge. Once he'd lost his lead, the whole thing was over. Back then sexual appeal and power were the same thing, and though he spent most all of his teens and some of his twenties trying to hop into the sack with barons and brigadiers just to get his hat in the ring, those days are long over.

Whether it's age or years of crippling loneliness or rejection after rejection after rejection that mellowed him out, he couldn't say, but it doesn't matter, really, not now, not here.

In the course of their lives they've only spent about five a half damn days together — not even together, in the same place. And yet with Richard it's like he can almost relax.

"Well," comes the reply, after a long pause. 

"Yeah?"

Richard swallows, and now Thomas is flustered.

"Right, realistically speaking…"

"No need to be realistic, Mr Ellis," Thomas starts, voice low, the way men tend to like, and from the look in his eyes Richard's no exception. "You'd have finished kissing me, all else as it was, then said something smug and been on your way. You can't be kicking yourself over just that, can you?"

"And what do you want me to say to a thing like that, Mr Barrow."

If only slightly, if sardonic, he's smiling.

"Oh, I couldn't put words into your mouth."

As he speaks, Thomas presses his palm to his cheek, drags his fingers along Richard's neck and settles his hand upon his shoulder, caresses his collarbone with his thumb. It's a bit of a reach from his position, but the hitch in Richard's breath makes it worth it.

* * *

"Well, you win, then, Mr Barrow."

"Always do. I'm an excellent sportsman."

Although not a good sport, which he will eventually find out, to be sure.

"Are you, now."

Richard — unconsciously, probably — licks his lips, and Thomas only just stops himself from leaning down.

"What, don't believe me?"

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"Them's fighting words, Mr Ellis."

In a remarkable display of abdominal strength, _maybe he is an excellent sportsman himself,_ Richard rolls up to kiss him.

* * *

They don't touch again, but he gets to hear all about what could have been, in some other world where there were no places to go, no tasks to be accomplished, no chores to be done, no one to interrupt.

Once he returns to Downton, being back in the butler's pantry is going to be interesting.

* * *

"…I sort of thought I'd lost my chance."

"Your chance." 

"To… have someone, and I know there was you already, I do, but it wasn't…"

"We left things unclear in your eyes." 

That wording makes him cringe.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I just, I – I'm almost thirty-eight, and yeah it's not that old in the grand scheme of things, but I... " He's lonely, and he has been for a very, very long time, and it's hard to think he might ever not be again. "Sorry."

"Thomas," Richard says. He places his palm on his cheek, and Thomas looks up at him and feels very small and stupid. "This happened a year ago." Richard kisses him, a peck on the lips. "You have already apologised." Another kiss. "And I have already forgiven you." Yet another. "Because, and this might be surprising – " One more. "You're not the only man on the face of the Earth who's ever been unfaithful to a lover." 

The last is longer, and this time he gives Thomas a chance to kiss back.

_Lover._

So he does, and enthusiastically; he feels like he's going to melt, but he's overcome by the sense that Richard still doesn't get it, that he hasn't yet realised that he could do far, far better because the one man he's chosen is nowhere near good enough for him, and he needs to learn that now instead of later if Thomas is going to get out of this without a broken heart.

But maybe that's what he deserves.

"Yeah, well, can't exactly call that good company, can you — "

"Not in your head, am I, so I don't know if you can," Richard says. He kisses his cheek. "But you're in bed with one of them, if that helps."

And then he says, quickly, a hair frantic, "years ago, was years ago."

_Thank God you're not perfect,_ Thomas thinks.

* * *

That evening they take a walk along the south bank of the river, looking over the wall in silence. They can't hold hands or anything, of course, and he feels resentment at every man and woman who pass by arm in arm, but it's intimate all the same.

Most of the people they see are independent, though, coming and going to or from work — some in suits, middle class and clearly ending an eight hour day, others a bit shabbier, and though he's come to love the country it's almost nice to be somewhere with hustle and bustle.

Still.

"Don't see how anyone manages to live here," Thomas says.

"Not one for cities?"

"Eh."

He's noncommittal about it, really, but London is a bit too big, loud, and dirty for his taste, and though he'd once thought Downton much too small, it's familiar. The advantage of seven million people, he supposes, is the ability to disappear.

"I've never lived in the country, myself."

"York might as well be country to folks here, in my experience," he replies, but his experience comes mostly from fellow servants from the area, and it's not like their people to be especially welcoming, anyway.

Not that he was always so gracious himself.

"You're not from York," Richard says pointedly, like it's something he ought to be ashamed of.

"Thankfully."

Richard coughs, and Thomas laughs at him, fond.

"Yorkshire?"

"No, _God,_ no, that'd be even worse – "

"Really endears me to you, Mr Barrow, hearing you talk like that about the old North Country – "

"Oh, please, the North Country's not just Yorkshire – "

"Part that matters is," Richard returns, cocky, smiling, and Thomas makes a point of stumbling over a cobblestone so he can knock into his shoulder. They're both laughing; it makes him think of a year ago, leaving the post office, when neither of them knew the score or what was certain. "Shouldn't've asked, though, you don't sound Yorkie."

_But I like that you do,_ Thomas thinks, and he bites his lip so he doesn't bloody say it, because what kind of a fucking thought is that when everyone else in Downton talks like he does, strictly speaking.

Richard hums. "Lancashire?" 

"Yeah," Thomas says. "Manchester. We're neighbours."

Or they were, at least. In a broad sense.

"Would've been nice to know that before last summer."

"Yeah."

Lots of things would have been nice, although Thomas has to wonder if things would have worked out the same if they'd crossed paths before the Royal Visit. He's not exactly always been a likeable person. 

…he's not exactly a likeable person in the present, really, although it's nice that Richard seems to be finding him as such. 

Thomas has the mind to tease again, but he doesn't quite yet know how far to push is too far. The last thing he wants to do is ruin things, and so they keep walking in silence, amicable, but there is something in the air between them that he hopes they are both feeling. Something different that no one around can see but that Thomas knows is there, and the thought is both comforting and disappointing at once. 

Because no one around is ever going to see it, and it would be dangerous if they did.

Somehow, they veer off to the side of the walkway to look out over the river, shoulders brushing.

"Nice view, isn't it," says Richard, gathered up and debonair.

He is not looking at the Thames.

"You're a funny one, aren't you, Richard Ellis."

They've got their elbows resting on the railing, and Richard, ever the hypocrite, sets his palm on the top of his hand and interlaces their fingers, and they're both facing just the right way that _no one around can see,_ but now Thomas's heart is pounding and it's all he can do to stare at his lips and he knows he's being stared at, too, and this is _dangerous_ —

They jump apart.

"Mind if I smoke," says Thomas, stepping back. The ground is far worse to look at than what's in front of him, _nice view indeed,_ but he can't bear to make eye contact.

"Don't mind," Richard replies, a little sharp, uneasy, "but I don't smoke, either."

"Don't start, it's a nasty habit," and as he fumbles with his lighter, he wishes he'd quit all the way, none of this tapering off business, because if he's keeping things in his pocket he's bound to use them. Especially at times like these.

"Is it?"

"If you can't stop yourself." He's been trying to get out of it for the last year and a half at this point, but he's getting better. Or reasonable, at least. This one is his first in a few days.

"Folks think it's odd I don't."

"Yeah, well, people think plenty's odd that isn't."

And don't they know that better than anyone.

* * *

They have dinner at a hole in the wall family joint, everything à la carte, working class and thank God for that. The place is just crowded (that is, noisy) enough that they can talk without worrying about being overheard.

Neither of them are stupid, though, so they chat over the menu about things that don't really matter in the grand scheme of things and then get quiet when the food arrives.

It's halfway through their dinner that he recalls they never really finished their conversation that morning, and suddenly he's got a bad desire to know.

"Do you ever think of leaving, yourself? Service, I mean."

Richard sets down his wine glass. "Yeah, actually, I do."

"Even though you've got, what, the second best valet position in the whole country?"

Though he leans back and crosses his arms (hardly palace etiquette, Thomas thinks), Richard does laugh — he's good at taking jokes at his expense. 

Thomas is not, though, not in the least, so he should probably stop lest the tables turn.

He takes a forkful of potato and looks at Richard expectantly, eyebrows raised.

"And thus the second most precarious."

Fair.

He should know what it's like, because he's lived it enough times by now.

"What else would you do?"

And just like that he's put Richard on the defensive. Maybe his tone was too dark.

"Not labour, if I can help it. Wouldn't mind something in an office. Public service, I suppose, clerical work. Managerial, if the opportunity arises, though I'm not so foolish as to think there'll be plenty. Hardly middle class, but I can type, keep books, file, you know," he says, and then he's upright again and taking a sip of his wine.

"Clerical work is women's work nowadays, isn't it?"

"Not always."

"Well," says Thomas. "If experience doesn't cut it you've certainly got an estimable employer."

He regrets it as soon as he's said it, because it sounds far, far more bitter out loud than he ever meant it to, and it's not even true, either, the implication. Richard is certainly more experienced than he is at white-collar work, by the sound of it (where'd he learn to _type?_) and one's probably got to have a certain degree of prowess beyond dressing and boot cleaning to get the position he's in, anyway.

"I was a sergeant in the service corps during the war, actually. That counts for something with some people." 

Of course he was.

An actual one, too, Thomas assumes.

"Sorry," he mutters, and he downs the rest of his wine. "Putting my own problems on you, I suppose."

Overqualified for service, underqualified for everything else, and he hasn't exactly kept in touch with anyone from back then — that's the real benefit of rising in the ranks, having people who can speak to your character and get your foot in the door, and Richard's probably got them aplenty.

Thomas does not.

They're silent, then. Richard isn't frowning anymore, but he's not exactly contented, either, and after a while, he can't stand the look of him, not when it's his own fault. 

"I really am," he says quickly, "of course you'll find something if you put your mind to it — "

"It's all right, Thomas, it's not — you haven't done anything. I'm not so fond of thinking on the past, is all."

* * *

"Can I ask something?" 

They're walking again — somehow they'd wandered all the way out to Battersea, and now they've got to wander back.

As the sky darkens, a different side of the city is starting to show. 

"Go on," says Thomas. 

"What'd you do during the war?"

_Can you ask something else?_

"Medical corps."

Richard looks at him, surprised, eyebrows raised and head tilted. Part of him is a tad offended that this information warrants that sort of reaction; part of him knows it's more warranted than Richard even thinks; the rest of him wants this conversation to be over, now, please. "I always thought that very noble."

"Wish it was," he says, because that's all he can think to say. He wants to be honest, because he's only ever been honest with Richard and he can't very well stop now, but there's no way, surely, that he can tell him the whole truth, either. "Even volunteered, too, before they'd declared anything." 

"Hardly sounds _ignoble,_ Mr Barrow."

Around them the lamplights turn on, all at once, and it's enough of an interruption that they both pause. The river reflects some of it, enough that Thomas is drawn to look, and for a moment he forgets what he's in the middle of.

Eventually Richard coughs, though, on purpose or not, and he's brought back to himself. "Well, I didn't join up for the right reasons, Richard, so it bloody well was." He can't keep the scorn out of his voice. "Wasn't at the front for very long, neither." Not compared to some people. "Besides, I couldn't have done my job without the ASC."

"Wanted nothing to do with the war 'til conscription, myself," Richard says airily, in that way of his, that _stop thinking you're the only man on the face of the Earth who's done such and such _way of his.

And it was needed, really, because Thomas hadn't expected that, especially not if he was a sergeant by the end of it. He'd thought maybe he'd have been like William, jumping at the opportunity to fight for King and Country, stick it to the Hun.

"Everyone was saying it would be brief, you may recall. By the time we knew that was false..."

"All your school pals were dead."

"Yeah." Richard's posture has changed, Thomas realises, he's less upright and assured — it even shows in his shadow. "Yeah, something like that."

* * *

They go up to the room, get their belongings settled, and begin to undress in silence.

Thomas gets uncomfortable, though, before he's even taken off his tie or unfastened his braces, and he sits on the bed and stares up at the ceiling.

There's no reason for this to be awkward — they've just done it this morning, after all, and for each other that time, like bloody valeting, but somehow it's different when it's in the middle of kissing versus… this, just normal, no intense feelings of longing at play.

Or not yet, at least.

Hopefully.

"You're allowed to watch, you know."

The words make him start, and he looks over at Richard, who's smiling at him over his shoulder and looking like an illustration out of a magazine advertisement for menswear. 

He can't say anything, only stares, and he must look terribly foolish, because Richard laughs at him and goes back to his tie, though he can tell he's still being watched from the mirror. "If you so wish."

Thomas straightens up. "Suppose I do."

"Go on, then, Mr Barrow."

* * *

As Thomas is divesting himself of his trousers, Richard has the bright idea to push the beds together, which apparently was the plan all along.

He's an idiot, isn't he.

* * *

No sooner than they're into pyjamas are they back out of them, because, first of all, neither of them are really in the habit of wearing full nightclothes, and second, they can't keep their bloody hands off each other.

"Thomas, Thomas, I — stop — "

Until now, apparently. He takes his mouth off Richard's collarbone and pushes himself up to sit, kicking himself for whatever he's done wrong this time — 

Except Richard doesn't look displeased. "This," he starts, breathless and blushing, "this is going to be over… very, very soon, if — "

"Oh, _is_ it."

Thomas is almost giddy, now, drunk on whatever this feeling is, because it's not really power, like he'd thought, he is not and nor does he want to be in control, so much as it is accomplishment, the sense that he can give to Richard in this way, like he doesn't need to do anything else at all if he can do this.

"Not always so buttoned up as you look, are you?" he says, fiddling with his glove; he won't even bother to hide his smile. The mattress shifts as Richard sits up behind him, presses a kiss to the back of his neck. He's breathing heavily, and God, Thomas just wants to put his mouth back on him, but — 

"Does that ever come off?"

He answers with ease, surprising himself: "when it does, it's a killjoy if there ever was one."

The comment alone isn't enough to make him falter, though, not now.

Richard reaches around his back, slides his hand down his arm like he's petting him, and then takes his hand. For a moment Thomas fears he's just going to take it off for him, but he doesn't, just feels along the edges, draws his thumb down along his wrist, stops just at the cuff of the glove, just at the edge of...

Oh.

"'See you've found my other killjoy."

Well.

Wasn't that fun while it lasted.

Richard releases his hand, kisses the back of his shoulder, then sits up again. They're facing each other now, sweating, flushed, but no longer aroused.

"How long ago?"

"Few years."

His chest feels like it's full of bricks.

They just look at each other.

He wants to say, _I'm fine now,_ but that isn't how it works, not really. He's _better._ This last year has been the best one of his life and he feels better than he ever has, but _better_ and _fine_ are different. Once you try to off yourself, the feeling comes back on every bad day. He'd seen it in the convalescent soldiers, way back when, and it's in him, now. 

Maybe for good.

"I tried to drown myself when I was sixteen," Richard says, breaking the silence, like he's talking about the weather. "Took a large dose of Veronal and drew up a bath, but I forgot to lock the door. Mum was hysterical."

When Thomas was sixteen, he'd felt like his life was just beginning, the world at his fingertips. He doesn't know what to say.

"And then," adds Richard, "during the war, I — "

"'Course."

"Different reasons."

There's solidarity in that, to be sure.

"Ever wish you'd been successful?" Thomas asks, hesitant.

Richard inhales, exhales, nods.

Thomas murmurs, "Me, too."

* * *

At some point, Richard gets up to turn off the lamp, and they lie in one another's arms until they fall asleep.

* * *

Thomas is only just coming to, only just remembering why the bed and the air and the light are different, when — 

"Good morning, Mr Barrow."

The curtain is open enough to let some daylight in, and Richard is standing at the wardrobe mirror, shaving and grinning at him.

And only wearing his undergarments, but Thomas has got less to look at than Richard does, because he himself is nude.

"Good morning, Mr Ellis."

Because it certainly is.

* * *

They dress and freshen up together, go one after the other to the washrooms, and before they leave for the day, they put the beds back where they came from.

* * *

The view from the bridge has got the Palace of Westminster, behind it the Abbey, Thomas knows, and further along the road, Buckingham Palace.

They make it about a quarter way across before stopping, like there's some invisible barrier blocking passage to London proper.

"Not too far off," Thomas says, and Richard hums, says nothing.

"Are we really safe out here?"

Richard's entire life begins just a stone's throw from the other side of this bridge.

"Mostly."

And he smiles, the same smile he gave Thomas a year ago outside of a police station, coy and cocky but with something else in his eyes.

They turn around and head back.

* * *

Clapham Common is refreshingly green, but he's about ready to collapse and the benches are all occupied by women and children.

"All right?"

"Haven't walked this much in ages," he says. Richard leads them over to a tree, which he promptly takes off his hat to lean against. "Not quite the same as being on your feet all day in a house, is it."

"Well, you know what they say about London," Richard says, "though I'm afraid you're not seeing much of its usual fare."

"Oh, you thought I came here to see _London,_ did you?"

* * *

The rest of the day is a blur.

They spend the evening in, partly because Thomas has another early train in the morning and, though they won't say it aloud, partly because there are only so many hours in the day for them to bloody touch each other, and they've not taken nearly as much advantage of that as they might have.

"Ought to meet halfway, next time," Thomas says, gasping. Richard's got him up against the wall again, hand on his jaw, awfully gentle despite their positions. "Some – some railway town with nothing else to do but – "

Richard interrupts him by continuing their kiss.

* * *

"You'll be the death of me, Thomas Barrow," Richard breathes. 

Thomas has him pinned to the bed and is showing plenty of affection to his chest. They're both desperately hard, they both want this, and his whole body feels like it's on fire, on edge.

"Going to let me actually get you off, this time?"

That gets a moan out of him, which Thomas takes as a yes. Richard confirms his assumption with "God, yeah, please," which is really the best he could have hope for.

"You're polite, aren't you," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of his sternum, adjusting his weight so that he can reach down and handle him. "D'you — d'you like to give or receive —"

"Receive, oh, _Christ_ —"

Well.

That he had not expected.

"Guess I'll have to compromise, then," Thomas returns, but he keeps on in the meantime, goes back to fondling his cock and sucking at his collar.

"No, no, no need, s'fine – " His breath catches. " – do something else," and Thomas pulls himself lower, moves his lips from his collarbone to his chest, then to his nipple, "that's it, _God,_ Thomas, you and your damn mouth – "

There's an idea.

"It does more than this," Thomas breathes against his skin, and it's like a line out of some smutty magazine, but it _works._

* * *

He'd almost be fine if they didn't go on — it's satisfying just to have a prick in his mouth, half the time — but when he expresses this sentiment, Richard isn't having it.

Not like he actually wants that, either.

"...besides, it's hardly the gentlemanly course of action."

"Neither of us are _gentlemen_ and you know it," Thomas says. It's true for every sense of the word, and though he's gone to bed with plenty of peers and whatnot, none of them ever paid him quite this much attention.

"No," replies Richard, smiling, and he presses his thumb to Thomas's lips. "No, we're on quite equal footing, here, aren't we," like he can read his mind.

* * *

"Been a while," gasps Thomas, because Richard is doing things with his hands that he'd forgotten were even possible, and it's taking everything he's got left in him to keep quiet.

"Honoured," says Richard, all smooth and polished again, and he closes his fingers in just the right way that he can't come yet, and then he's up near him again and they're kissing and at least he can't bloody scream if his mouth is busy and then his lips are on his jaw and he says "hush," into his ear and lets go and —

* * *

Two hours later they're back at it.

Again, they fall asleep in an embrace.

* * *

The maid who does the knock up is loud as all hell, but that's probably a good thing, because it's three in the damn morning and he's got a train to catch.

* * *

"Well."

"Well."

"Farewell, Richard Ellis," Thomas says, and for lack of something else to do grabs his hand and shakes it.

They'd embraced in the room before heading out, gripped one another as tightly as possible until it got to be too much, and then they'd kissed, too, because they couldn't very well do that at the station, either.

"Same to you, Thomas Barrow."

* * *

As the train leaves the platform, Thomas waves out the window, just once or twice, nothing overt about it, and Richard waves back.

He sleeps the whole way to York.

* * *

By the time he's back to Downton, the staff ought to have been up for a few hours, and he's just in time to be ready for breakfast.

Mrs Hughes is at the back door as he comes in.

"I hope you had a nice time away, Mr Barrow," she says.

"I did, Mrs Hughes, thank you." Though he'll be battling exhaustion all day and likely much of tomorrow, too.

They sort of stare at one another, she wringing her hands and he awkwardly holding his hat.

"Well," she says, her face settling into a kind smile, and he nods. "I am very glad, very glad indeed."

It's entirely genuine.

* * *

"I present you Miss Caroline Talbot, ladies and gentlemen, the youngest pilot in all of England," Thomas announces, and he gives her one last swoop before handing her off to her mother. 

The library is more crowded than it usually is — the Lord and Lady Merton are over for the day — but it's more quiet, too, owing to some complicated matter discussed over luncheon. No matter the mood, however, he will take Lady Mary up on every opportunity to play with the children, and as they're blissfully unaware of the trials of tenant farmers, they don't turn him down, either.

"The whole world," Sybbie corrects him, isn't she just like her mother, and she joins Lady Mary on the sofa to pet Caroline's hair.

She won't stop giggling, and the room is all smiles.

Almost.

"You don't give me plane rides anymore," George says, affronted.

_Because you're three and a half stone and growing like a weed._

"Aren't you a little old for that sort of thing, Georgie," replies his mother. He plops himself down on the other side of the sofa with a huff and promptly begins to bother his sister.

"A little tall, rather, your Ladyship," says Thomas.

"Oh, Matthew was such a gangly boy at that age, though you'd never have known it once he was a man."

Though it's been long enough that the smiles don't fade, the atmosphere in the room changes yet again, and Thomas is relieved when afternoon tea is over.

* * *

"Oh, Daisy'll like this one — '"

And he reads aloud the first few lines of a front page article: Parliament has passed the bill to expand women's suffrage.

"We should _all_ like that one, Mr Barrow," says Mrs Hughes, and Thomas shrugs, but he agrees, of course.

"Did you really have to leave _that_ 'til last? Just think! Me, a voter!" 

"God help us," says Mrs Patmore, but it's clear she doesn't mean it.

* * *

Summer turns to autumn.

Sometimes there are no letters at all; sometimes they're each one step ahead of the other, sending and receiving at morning and second post both.

He's long stopped reading them at breakfast, but there's no way the rest of them don't notice.

* * *

Conversation in the dining room this morning is devoted entirely to news of the king's condition, and he supposes that he shouldn't be smug, but he's never gotten over his need to know things before anyone else does — and Richard's letter, delivered yesterday, certainly gave him an insider's account.

_...suppose that Lord Grantham were to fall gravely ill as a volcano erupted on the grounds of Downton Abbey, and you will understand a fraction of what is going on here at Buckingham Palace…_

* * *

"You've been getting a lot of letters, haven't you, Mr Barrow," Anna says, conversational.

They're in the boot room — he tidying, she cleaning. He knows she'll be shortly headed back to the cottage for the night, so there's a clear end to this conversation, which lessens the sudden weight on his shoulders.

"You could say that, I suppose."

"Is that anything to do with your holiday?"

Which was some months ago, now, but it's on his mind constantly, morning, day, and night. 

"Might be," he replies, but he smiles at her, speaks softly. It's not a sour remark so much as it is a shy one.

They go back to the shoes. 

After some minutes, she's finished, but she stops at the door on her way out: "are you… happy, Thomas," hesitantly. " — Mr Barrow."

"I think that I am."

"Then I'm happy for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ORIGINAL NOTES**  
1) thank you all SO MUCH for the response to the first chapter, i am absolutely blown away. as i said, i'm new to downton abbey fandom, and this sort of engagement and support is completely new to me. you guys ROCK. everyone be my friend please  
2) once again, trains are accurate to the 1940s.  
3) in 2019, at least, you cannot actually walk along the south bank of the river thames in much of the lambeth/vauxhall/battersea area, as it's developed/all private property. i have, obviously, not been in 1920s london, so i can't speak to what it was like then, but i assume the scenario would have been incorrect then, too, so. london geography/urban development buffs, please suspend disbelief.  
4) veronal was a sedative medication first marketed in 1903. it's known primarily for being a bit harder to overdose on than other sedatives of the 1900s, but that's not saying much given that the other ones available at the time were very, very easily overdosed.  
5) i feel like anna has had functionally this exact conversation like five times in canon but i'm probably imagining four of those? i might also be replacing something mary said with something she said  
6) 3.5 stone is 49lbs, which is about 22.25kg, and fairly average for healthy 6 year old boys, but thomas obviously has no reason to actually know george's weight so he may have made an off estimate  
7) rough timeline for this chapter: spring in the beginning, june and july in the middle, november/december in the end.  
8) if there is indeed going to be a film sequel as apparently is rumored, this fic will be obsolete, but that won't stop me from taking richard's like six (6) scenes and running with them, characterization wise. also i've been trying not to read other thomas/richard fic yet to avoid influence and/or accidental plagiarism, so i have no clue if this lines up with how other people are writing him. very excited to finish this thing and find out.  
9) i'm sorry that these notes are not are all in chronological order  
10) haha i can't believe i'm posting light pornography at 7:50 in the morning


	3. 1929: winter, spring, summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **content warnings/notes for chapters 3 & 4:** depression, illness, war, pregnancy, homophobia, suicide, child abuse, and minor character death. there is non-explicit consensual sexual content. 
> 
> these chapters also have: babies, dining room drama, women's suffrage, babies, trains (delightful!), an international stock market crash, functional marriage proposals 85 years in advance of legally sanctioned marriage for the two involved, and babies.

## 1929

winter, spring, summer

* * *

In January, they meet for two days in Corby, Lincolnshire, a village he'd never heard of before finding it in the passenger services pamphlet — there's a railway station, some churches, and not much else, if you don't count farmland.

It rains the whole time.

It's perfect.

* * *

Bittersweet, though, once he's back.

Thomas almost feels like a different person when he's with Richard, and when they're together he's so divorced from the rest of his life that he may as well be. How much can you really know about a man you only see once or twice a year?

They write, of course, but their letters are only detailed up to a point, and even if they didn't have to be, a letter's not meant to be a diary.

And anecdotes, little glimpses at what goes on when they aren't together, aren't what he wants.

What he wants is to know everything, to figure it out for himself — what irks him the most? how does he take his tea? what's he like at the end of a workday? what's he like at the beginning of a workday? and then, how is he with children, does he care for cards, what game's he best at, can he play the piano, does he get irritable when he's hungry, what's he like when he's ill, where does he go when he needs to be alone, what's the best part of his job, how is he with a bat and a ball, what does he look like when he's crying, what are the little every-day things that make him smile, and all the things he doesn't know that he doesn't know and didn't ever give a damn about before, all the things he could tell about everyone he's ever worked with but not about him.

Yes, he could ask, for some of them, but that's not the same, is it.

* * *

_8 February 1929_

_Dearest Thomas,_

_No doubt you've heard the news by now. I'll be off to Bognor. I cannot tell you how long for, nor, given the sensitivity of the matter, when I shall next write._

_I hope that you think of me affectionately in the meantime._

_Yours,_

_Richard_

* * *

That winter there are no funerals, but Branson ends up engaged and so, somehow, does Albert the hall boy, who shortly thereafter turns in his notice (a maid replaces him); Miss Baxter and Molesley marry (his sister and brother-in-law and the niece and nephews he didn't know he had attend the ceremony); the Talbots and the Bateses are expecting; Daisy and Andy, now both at the farm, are 'trying'. 

It's all anyone will talk about, babies, babies, babies, weddings, weddings, weddings, and whenever it gets to be too much he's mindful to spend some time with the children he already knows and likes.

But that's going to change, too, as George is set to go off to a preparatory school in autumn and Sybbie to a girls' independent — and the place is Catholic, which causes a stir, though downstairs they'd all decided back in 1920 that such a thing was inevitable.

* * *

On Valentine's Day, Daisy and Andy announce the news. She's much further along than they'd thought, though from what Thomas overhears, most everyone but him had guessed already.

It might have made him feel left out, once, but it's not like anyone expects him to know anything about women.

Actually, he doesn't even expect himself to know anything about women, so he gives them his heartfelt congratulations first chance he has and then gets on with his life.

After all, this is what, his third Valentine's ever? that he's actually got someone to think about who's thinking about him, too. (The second was last year, and he can't actually be certain when the first was, but there had to have been someone at one point — 1912, probably, though given how that worked out in the end maybe he's got rose-tinted glasses on.)

* * *

Last year they'd actually written, though. This year he doesn't have an address, and he's not about to send any letters to Richard _poste restante_ — but still.

He's definitely thinking of him affectionately, that night, keepsake under his pillow and everything.

* * *

"I don't want to go to school."

"Well, I don't suppose it's your choice, is it?"

There's a melodrama unfolding in the library between Talbot, Lady Mary, and his Lordship this afternoon, so Branson takes the children outside and invites Thomas along. His reasons for this are his own, but he's certainly not complaining — at least, not about having George in his charge. It may be March, but it's still winter; 'outside' was an odd choice. 

It hasn't rained lately, though, and it's not too cold, so they get on alright.

They're taking a walk, but he manages to keep the girls in plain view.

"I have tutors, and a governess. I can learn here at home, can't I?"

Which is exactly what his grandfather had said, but he was fighting a losing battle. The 1870s were long over, and this was the new normal: preparatory, Eton, Oxford.

Some people's new normal, at least. The rest of them were to get on with crowded elementary schools 'til leaving age, and then maybe secondary, for the bright ones. Still, by the time George was to university he'd likely laugh at the idea of being kept home until age twelve.

If the Dowager Countess were still around, she'd be in fits.

"There are other reasons than learning for children to go to school, Master George."

George frowns. "I'm almost eight, you know," like it's a grand number that once reached will bring him directly to manhood.

His seventh birthday was only five months ago.

"Of course I do. And you'll have your birthday in school this year, now, won't you." If he didn't have a hat on, he'd ruffle his hair. 

For a while, George doesn't say anything.

"Did you go to school, Mr Barrow? When you were my age?"

He ought to have expected this line of questioning.

"I certainly did," he says cheerfully, in his best _you are a very bright child_ voice, the one that mostly gets used on Marigold, "and there were plenty of other boys to make friends with, which is the real reason you'll be off, I should think."

And then, before he can respond, ask about how he made friends or anything else he doesn't want to talk about with a seven-year-old — "say, Master George, would you like to practice bowling for cricket?"

Ground's hard enough for it, even if George might find it tough to throw properly with gloves on.

As always, though, he would like it "very much, Mr Barrow."

* * *

Nancy Ellen Bates comes into the world on the first day of spring.

As moody as he's been, he's swept up in the excitement like the rest of them. And how can he not be, really, this is one thing he'll admit to being absolutely keen on — besides, the nights he ends up looking after Johnnie (he and Mrs Hughes trade off, because if they're both exhausted the well-oiled machine starts to grind) become the best part of his week.

* * *

_11 April 1929_

_Dearest Thomas,_

_I am sorry I haven't written and sorrier still that this is so brief, but circumstances warrant it. I've had a letter from my uncle. To spare you the details, Mum is ill, and I might be returning home. I suppose I'll have to decide whether my presence or my employment will do us the most good._

_I know you don't pray, but please think of her._

_Yours,_

_Richard_

* * *

The letter comes in with the second post; Thomas isn't able to look at it until he's done for the day. 

And then he just sits at his desk, reads it over and over.

It's not good news, it isn't, and he's absolutely sympathetic — his own mother's decline when he was a boy is up there on the list of his worst experiences, and he wasn't even that fond of her — but all things considered York is a little less than an hour away by train and London is _four._

A selfish thought, but it is one he's thinking. 

Once he's slept on it he'll have a more balanced opinion, and atheism be damned he'll be praying tonight for her speedy recovery, but he knows that'll be on the back of his mind all the while.

The prospect of them being nearer to one another is a mind boggling one.

As he's locking up the pantry, pensive, Lady Grantham comes barreling down the stairs in her dressing gown.

* * *

"You mean, I have another sister?"

George's tone indicates that this is the worst thing that's ever happened to him.

"That you do, Master George."

His nanny is assisting with preparing the nursery, and despite protests George is insistent on staying awake until his grandparents are back. 

This was a hard sell: the compromise was born out of the fact that his mother wouldn't be back until tomorrow, and if he waited up for her then he wouldn't sleep at all, now would he, and then he'd be cranky when he met the baby, and he wouldn't like that very much, he really wouldn't, and so on and so forth. They couldn't wake up Caroline for that reason — the girl's a terror when she's tired. Sybbie, though, ever sensible, had smiled, nodded, and gone back to sleep once they'd told her the news. 

He doesn't really blame her. It's past his bedtime, too.

So he and George are just in the corridor, now, trying to stay out of the way.

"You do know that's not what I wanted, Mr Barrow."

Seven's an odd age — one minute he's whinging and the next he's sounding like his grandfather. School will be good for him, get him adjusted, and though Thomas isn't exactly looking forward to it he knows it's for the best.

"Oh, and that's Miss Margaret's fault, is it?" That's all they know at this stage, really, Talbot was too excited to say much more in the telephone call: she's a girl, her name is Margaret, and she's healthy, as is Lady Mary.

George kicks at the rug, and Thomas smooths it back out with his foot.

"Margaret's just a baby."

An hour old baby, at that, so she's hardly at fault for anything.

" — but couldn't Mama have chosen — "

"Not sure that's quite how it works, Master George."

"How does it work?"

Oh, to be a sheltered, upper class child.

"You can ask your mother about that."

* * *

He realises once he's gone up to bed that he probably shouldn't've suggested he ask his mother anything, but it's too late, now.

* * *

_12 May 1929_

_Dearest Thomas,_

_As I feared, Mum isn't getting any better. The decision is clear, so I've handed in my notice and I'll be back in York by the end of the month, to stay indefinitely. I can't call it convenient, but His Majesty's convalescence is coming to an end, and the transition back to the Palace will simplify my leaving. As for what I'll do once I'm back north, I've got favours owed me in the city, and if I'm lucky cashing in on one of them will lead to something. I won't be going back to service, that's for sure._

_I'm not happy to be going home under these circumstances, but as they say, every cloud has a silver lining._

_The silver lining in this case is that no matter what happens in the future, I'll be only a short journey away from you._

_Remember that I'm always your_

_Richard_

* * *

Margaret Talbot makes the whole house brighter.

She's got Daisy thrilled: there's talk nonstop about _if it's a girl,_ and though it's endearing at first, it gets grating after a while.

But at the end of the month, they all — genuinely all, this year, Daisy and Mrs Hughes and even a couple of maids — go down to the schoolhouse to vote Labour, and no one can really blame her for keeping on about it after that.

* * *

Richard makes good use of his connections and gets a position in an office in York before he's even arrived. It's something above a clerk and below an administrator, routine tasks — the change comes with less pay and more expenses, but he doesn't live with the people he works with and he gets two days off every week, so in the end it's exactly what he wanted. The less prestige you've got the easier it is to lie low, after all.

Thomas takes all his half-days (one every fortnight, now, instead of a full day a month) with him, spends more on bus fare than he ever has in his life, and starts to find answers to some of his questions.

* * *

"You can say that you're jealous, you know."

"What have I got to be jealous over?"

"Much the same as I do, I think, Mr Barrow."

Richard slings his arm over his shoulder and leans in — they're in the tiny back garden of his family house. Beyond the high fence is an overgrown thicket, beyond that is railway tracks; they can behave freely. No looking over their shoulders or watching bartenders out of the corners of their eyes or making an effort not to touch in a crowded third class carriage.

He'd finally met his mother this morning, and though he gets the sense that she's rather ill at ease with all this, doesn't quite understand it, she's kind to him, and evidently happy for her son.

It's a world of difference from his own upbringing, but maybe if he'd kept in better touch with his old man he'd've come around, eventually.

Wishful thinking. He wouldn't have, and even if he would, Thomas is pretty sure that ship has sailed. They only write a few times a year.

So, fine, when it comes to families, Thomas probably _is_ jealous, but he's long accepted the fact that he'll never marry, never have children of his own. He thinks it might all be cursed, anyway, given the history of the Crawley family with such things, but Anna and little Nancy both are the picture of health and there've now been three Crawley births with no sudden death involved, so he can't help but wonder, too, what things would be like for him in another life.

Maybe it's just him that's cursed, though he thinks so less and less these days. 

* * *

"Oh, please, Mrs Patmore, Mr Mason won't let me do _anything_ at the farm —"

"As he right well shouldn't!"

Everyone's gathered in the kitchen to see Daisy, whose pregnancy — despite its beginnings — is certainly showing now. Not even being eight months along stops her from chit chat or trying to get her hands on the mixer, though. She wants to be occupied, he supposes, which is fair. He imagines he'd be bored to death in her shoes, himself.

Ultimately, and he finds this surprising, Thomas is glad she's come up, and back when he was doing a different job he'd have probably taken the chance to loiter, too. If he wouldn't have taken it as a chance to be churlish, which if he's honest with himself, might have been more likely, depending on the day. 

In any case, he's the one in charge of everything, now, like it or not, and he has to draw the line somewhere.

"Daisy, you'll stay for luncheon?"

She just looks at him, wide eyed, like she hadn't considered it at all as a possibility.

Even though it's in, what, an hour? Forty minutes?

"Yes, please, if I can, Mr Barrow."

"In that case, if we could please get back to work…"

There are sighs all around, but just then the pantry telephone rings, so he gives everyone five more minutes.

* * *

" – and this is the place of employment for a Mr Thomas Barrow?"

"It is, sir, as I said, you're speaking to him now."

"Of course, yes. And, Mr Barrow, you are the son of Thomas Barrow, senior, born 1860 in Ashton-under-Lyne?"

"That I am, sir."

"Mr Barrow, I'm afraid I bear unfortunate news…"

* * *

Luncheon is awful.

The food in front of him isn't appetizing, the company isn't doing much for him, and the thought of having to carry on with his day after that makes him feel a bit ill.

"Sorry to say that I'll need a day or two off," Thomas says to Mrs Hughes, because if he's talking he's at least got to think about the words coming out of his mouth, instead of… stewing, brooding, grieving, this feeling that's settling in him.

It's an old friend, whatever it is, though not one he's all that happy to see.

"I'm sure that can be arranged," she murmurs, and he pretends he doesn't see the look on her face... by now she knows him well enough to worry when he's down, and worry on Mrs Hughes shows.

"Got a telephone call - "

"No need to explain yourself, Mr Barrow, now or later."

But later, they both know, is the better option. Much easier to have a conversation about this sort of thing when one's not surrounded by all the staff.

"Been taking a lot of time off lately, haven't you, Mr Barrow?" Andy says, and his timing is impeccable; it fills a lull in conversation that no one would have noticed, otherwise. 

_Not since bloody January,_ he thinks.

"Has he been? What do you mean, Andy?" Daisy is looking back and forth between the three of them, bewildered.

"Just what I said – "

"No more than I'm allotted, and far less than you have, if memory serves," interrupts Thomas, icy; he can tell what the implication is, here, even if Andy's acting genuine, "why do you ask?"

But Andy looks confused more than anything else.

"I didn't mean anything by it, Mr Barrow."

The table is tense, but from the look on Andy's face he knows he's gone in for the kill on someone who doesn't deserve it.

And it should be over at that, he only needs to apologise, but — 

"Perhaps Mr Parker takes his time off because he has a wife with child," Bates says.

"Mr Bates," says Anna, in the same tone she uses with Johnnie when he's put something in his mouth he wasn't supposed to.

This is definitely not about his working hours.

"But doesn't Mr Barrow approve it, Mr Bates, shouldn't he know what it's for already?" asks one of the housemaids, horribly, horribly sincere, and this is the _worst possible thing that could have happened._

"I do, in fact, yes," _so can everyone talk about something else, now that we've reestablished my authority here – _

"And he keeps all of your requests in strict confidence," adds Mrs Hughes, which is true, actually, how about that, he's not only generous with half-days he's good at his fucking job, "so let's treat his own the same, shall we?"

"Haven't we all got over this by now?" says Daisy, and clearly the last few minutes have all dawned on her at once. She's not usually this slow on the uptake, but that's the baby, probably. (Or at least that's what he'll chalk it up to — children he can get on with just fine, pregnant women he cannot. He's learned that well this year.)

"Yes, Daisy, we ought to have," and there's Mrs Patmore entering the fray, because that's just what this needed, was an entire chorus, "it's not any of our business except Mr Barrow's."

"I shouldn't like for everyone to know the details of my holidays, either," Anna adds. 

This seems to settle the discussion, but it also settles all discussion, full stop. 

Being at the head of the table doesn't exactly let you go on unnoticed, though, so Thomas just silently hopes they'll all go back to whatever they were talking about before, takes a deep breath, and tries to make himself eat something.

If a pin dropped in the dining room they'd all jump.

"Well, it's hardly a secret, is it," mutters Andy after a while. He's talking into his soup and it seems not everyone's heard him; _this could be over right now, it's already over, all he's got to do is ignore it —_

"What's that that's a secret, Mr Parker?"

He's going to regret this.

"Mr Barrow," says Mrs Hughes, kind, but he's rather crossed the threshold, now.

They're all staring at him, probably thinking _don't make me say it,_ which is what he's been thinking for the last twenty or so years, so he's fairly sure he has the right, now.

"I'm only curious," Thomas says. Casually, like he doesn't want to upend the table.

"I don't mean I have a problem with it, only I'm wondering why you haven't told us when we already know – "

"Andy," says Daisy, almost affronted, and Thomas doesn't know just how to feel about that, "leave it – "

"But suppose some have a problem, Andy," starts Mrs Patmore, well meaning, he hopes, at the same time Anna asks, "don't you think that Mr Barrow might have very good reasons not to share these things?"

And though he's thankful that at least some people are on his side, here, thankful that more of them are on his side than there ever used to be and that on another day and at another mealtime this might have gone down swimmingly, none of that is going to stop the maids from _talking in the village._

Thomas takes a deep breath, one that should calm him down and make him get over this but only riles him up further, and says, saccharine, "happy as I am to know you all find my love life such a spectacle, my father died this morning."

He wants to go on, tell them all where they can take their wondering, but the looks on everyone's faces shut him up. Not the time, not the place; still, he can't deal with this, so he stands up abruptly and mutters "don't bother" when they start to do the same.

* * *

Phyllis — she's not Miss Baxter anymore, but he's absolutely not going to call her Mrs Molesley — is back from her morning off in mid-afternoon. 

When she checks in on him, he's at his desk with his head in his hands. She closes the door behind her.

"Anna's just told me." 

"You should've heard it from me."

"Yes, I would have preferred to, but that's not something we can change, now."

"Suppose she also told you about — "

"I wish I'd been there," she interrupts, all soft, and no doubt that's a lie, because everyone in the dining room had likely wished they were somewhere else. No good, sound woman would choose that over taking a day in with her husband, and Phyllis may well be the most good, sound person he's ever met.

If nothing else, though, he trusts her.

* * *

She accompanies him to the funeral a few days later, and though he wears his black for it he knows he's not going to bother with an armband, or not for too long, at least.

When he tells her this on the train back, she doesn't argue, doesn't insist, only looks at him with sad eyes.

* * *

For two full weeks afterward he doesn't let himself think on it, doesn't process anything. He's chipper, even, and he stays busy: he makes the ledger neat and tidy, selects the wine for the next two months, resolves things with Bates and Andy, picks up everything that's been dropped and ties up every loose end. He's running a tight ship, one that not even Carson could fault him for. 

If they all think it's a façade, well, that's their problem, isn't it.

* * *

Turns out chipper doesn't quite suit him.

Unexpected as a trainwreck and devastating as a bombshell, the whole year hits him all at once when he's on his afternoon off. The two of them are in Richard's bedroom, the same one he shared with his brother as a child, seated side by side on a single bed. 

It's funny, really. The few times in his life he's bawled like this before were for people he gave a damn about, but from the phone call on all he's been able to think is good riddance.

At least now he's got a shoulder to cry on.

He goes on at length about what it's like downstairs at Downton, how it is being reminded every day of what's never in store for him, how it feels to be around people who remember you trying to kill yourself, people who could ruin you at any time if they wanted and only refrain from it so they feel like the better person, people you've mistreated terribly and _let me count the ways_ but who were never very good to you neither, people who are kind but not willing to step up when it actually counts, people who tell you to your face that you're foul, people who know how awful you can be but haven't yet picked up on the fact that you can do good things, too, even though you've been around them for years on end, even though you're responsible for them now and you do good work, and then when he's exhausted the entirety of his bloody history at Downton he makes it around to his late father.

"...couldn't even be bothered to tell me he was on his deathbed, the bastard, and here I thought maybe in the end there'd be some - some bloody _remorse,_ a shred of compassion for his degenerate _only son_ \- "

By the look on his face he can tell he's shocked Richard with all of it, and he knows he's never been this vitriolic in front of him, but he spent his youth and most of his bloody adulthood to date too bitter and spiteful and hiding and scared and _hating himself,_ and it's all coming back. 

" — and her! I'm a bloody uncle, Richard, they're near school age, and she never bothered to mention it in any of her fucking letters, you should've seen the look on her face when I saw them, because she can't very well have her pervert brother around the children, now, can she?"

"Thomas, I won't let you speak that way— "

"They don't give a damn about me, don't you see, none of them, they don't now and they never did, not my family, not my staff, you don't understand—"

Richard cups his cheeks in his hands, but he shakes him off, trembling.

"Don't, don't touch me, I…"

But he's exhausted himself, his voice is hoarse, and he doesn't have any tears left. All there is is empty, like there's a gaping hole where his heart should be.

He hasn't felt like this in years, and the last time he did he locked himself in the servants' bathroom and took up his shaving razor.

"Thomas," murmurs Richard. He's shifted away so that their knees don't touch, and Thomas hates and loves him both for actually listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ORIGINAL NOTES**  
1) chapter 3 ended up being about 8500 words long, so there are four chapters now because i can't do that to people.  
2) what's that? concrete dates for things? yes because i could not keep track of this damn thing & its historical references without them. long story short king george v had sepsis, everyone was raging, etc  
2) in this the year 2019 you can go york to london in less than two hours. that's the power of diesel (and several decades of engineering) baby!  
3) speaking of baby. if you hate babies i am sorry but i hope you can understand that thomas does not. #thomasbarrowworldsbestdad1925toforever.  
4) honestly i initially wavered over including the dining room scene as well as the grief induced shutdown scene but they're sort of the backbone of the fic and also the crux of thomas finally coming to terms with what his life has been up to this point, which imo is something he was really robbed of in the series. i also felt like some of his relationships with the other staff members were super unresolved at the end of things, which the movie didn't really touch on (presumably because it was only two hours long). four years is a long time in some ways and a very, very short one in others, but i hope i conveyed what i intended to be the dissonance in what's actually going on and what thomas can, in low moments, convince himself is going on. or, if i did not convey that here, i hope it gets across in the next one. anyway: imo sometimes people backslide, and recovery/character improvement is how you come back from it, not never doing it at all.  
5) i obviously took very brief scenes from the canon and ran with them to a land far far away with Many elements of this fic, but from what i can tell by the fanwork i've seen already i'm hardly alone in doing so, so... like...  
6) i think it's hilarious that this show ran for like six years and just never did anything with the housemaids so i've kept up the trend.  
7) chapter 4 will probably be up in the next 24 hours so hold onto your hats. it has less trauma drama, more babies, and what i hope most of you will find a pleasant ending!


	4. 1929: summer, autumn, winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **content warnings/notes for chapters 3 & 4:** depression, illness, war, pregnancy, homophobia, suicide, child abuse, and minor character death. there is non-explicit consensual sexual content. 
> 
> these chapters also have: babies, dining room drama, women's suffrage, babies, trains (delightful!), an international stock market crash, functional marriage proposals 85 years in advance of legally sanctioned marriage for the two involved, and babies.

## 1929

summer, autumn, winter

* * *

After he's come back to himself, Richard takes him downstairs, and Thomas is struck again by how stable he is, how fortunate. The house is small, attached, old, it shakes when a train goes by; still, it's been in the family long enough that there's no risk of him losing it. The Ellises may be working folk — his mum was a lady's maid back in the day, albeit to the Duchess of Fife, and his dad a carriage builder — but a few generations back they managed to set themselves up wisely.

He'd found all this out a month or so ago, when Richard had confessed he'd more than his fair share of guilt for being the end of the line, so to speak. During that conversation he'd told Thomas more than he'd already known about his older brother, his war widow sister-in-law, his absent father, his time at Buckingham Palace, given him the whole story, making sense of all the bits and pieces he's shared over the last two years — how suffocating it all was, home and work both, for years. 

Guilt is something they each have in spades, seems like.

"You've given me much to think about."

"Yeah, well." 

Shame is like a sore head: sometimes it just throbs on in the background, dull, and sometimes it's splitting. And, then, too, when you're feeling it, you can't remember what it's like not to. 

Right now it's splitting.

He can't believe he's told him he didn't understand, because in so, so many ways, he's the only man alive who does.

_Sorry for hiding that I'm a terrible person._

Because that's what this is all about, when it comes down to it, that.

Richard raises his eyebrows and passes him a mug of tea, straight black, then prepares his own, with cream, and they sit at the rickety dining table in silence for a little while.

"I'm not going to leave you," he says quietly.

Bloody clairvoyant, he is.

Thomas stares into his mug and says nothing, because he doesn't feel like he can. Like his voice has been turned off, or cut out of him.

"Would you care to — to talk about this, Thomas," stilted, awkward, and there's an unspoken _more rationally_ in there somewhere.

Because it wasn't rational. It was a bunch of old wounds, some of which he'd let fester and some of which had healed, but he'd gone and opened them all up again because he somehow can't accept the fact that he's been _happy._

"Not particularly." Not today, at least.

"I'd like to, at some point. Think we'd better."

And Thomas owes it to him.

He nods. "'Course."

It's nice, somehow, just to sit there, even with how hollow he feels. They've gotten to the point where they understand one another without speaking, sometimes. He's never had that before Richard, not in his whole life.

Eventually, though, they finish up, and it's nearing the end of the day, so —

"Right, let's get you back to the station."

* * *

Willa Parker is six weeks old, has a head full of dark hair, and is already starting to smile.

They're all gathered in the dining room to see her and Daisy — it's the first time they've come to the house since she was born, though Mrs Patmore, Mrs Hughes, Phyllis and the Bateses have gone down to the farm plenty of times, eager to help out.

Whatever anyone may say about the children of servants, or used to say, they've certainly got plenty of capable people to bring them up.

"Willa, is she?" asks a housemaid, who's gotten a thorough telling of the history of Daisy and Andy in the past couple of months. No one can blame her for asking, though, it's about what they'd all been thinking when they first heard the news.

Andy smiles. "I came up with it."

"Mr Mason was ever so pleased," Daisy says, and she tickles her daughter's chin.

Willa gurgles. Everyone coos.

"Would you like to hold her, Mrs Patmore?" 

"Oh, I couldn't, not yet —"

"It's been long enough, hasn't it," Andy says. He's not taken his eyes off his daughter since they arrived.

"Come on, you'll have to at some point, you're like her grandmama, aren't you?"

"Oh, Daisy!" 

And now Mrs Patmore can't very well do anything, because she's blubbering.

"Right," says Daisy, frazzled, "you, then, Mr Barrow?" 

"I – "

"Go on, then, go on," and she hands her over for him to cradle and then darts to hug Mrs Patmore.

She's beautiful.

He used to think infants were all the same, just noisy, messy things to be avoided, back before Sybbie was born and his only encounters were with fussy ones, but it's like he can't get enough of them, now.

"Hello, Willa," he whispers, and she just sort of blinks at him, but she's calm, and that's really the best you can get at this stage.

"So good with the wee ones, isn't he," says Mrs Hughes. There's a murmur of agreement.

It's the best thing anyone's ever said about him.

* * *

In mid-August, Mrs Ellis dies.

* * *

The house is just around the next corner, and suddenly Thomas is nervous.

"...only for the weekend; they've come down from Harrogate for the service," Richard is saying. "Ellie and Daniel, whom I've told you all about, and the girls. Marjorie's the younger one, five now, I believe, if I know you you'll adore her, and then Dorothy, Cecil's girl. My niece. Might've brought her up some before... She's my goddaughter, too, actually, er, last I heard she'd just earned entry on scholarship to the Ladies' College."

He's positively beaming.

As they turn the corner they catch each other's eye, and it's one of those moments where all he can think is _blimey if I'm not lucky to be next to this man._

"Anything else I ought to know?" he says, once he can speak again.

Richard's a bit coy all of a sudden — probably knows exactly what's just come over him and is relishing it.

"I shouldn't say so," he replies. 

They must be aware, then, unless he's just expected to pretend they're something they're not. He can't make himself ask — feels like he ought to know Richard well enough by now to figure it out himself.

It's their habit, pretending.

* * *

"Well, then, introductions are in order — Thomas, may I present Mrs Eleanor Ellis Wright, my sister-in-law, Mr Daniel Wright, her husband."

"And a longtime friend of Dickie's, mind," says Daniel, and he shakes Thomas's hand with a firm grip.

Thomas raises his eyebrows, and Daniel raises his back in a way that indicates he's intending to cause embarrassment.

And Richard is blushing, which is excellent.

"Ellie, Daniel, this is Mr Thomas Barrow, my — " though before he can say anything else (and _damn_ is Thomas wondering how he was going to finish that sentence) a girl comes crashing down the stairs and jumps up to cling onto Richard like a monkey. 

She's about twelve, if Thomas's math is right, just young enough to still be getting away with this sort of thing.

"Dorothy's rather excitable," says Ellie disapprovingly. "Do be calm, darling; we wouldn't want to bother Marjorie."

She has less of a Yorkshire accent than her husband, and actually, less than Richard, too — his has only gotten worse over the last few months.

Or better, depending on how one looks at it, and Thomas is not about to admit his feelings on that matter any time soon.

Richard gently pries the girl off of him and sets her down. She's skinny, with dark blond cropped hair and a school pinafore that's just a bit too short in the sleeves; he lifts her easily. "And we have company — Dottie, this is Mr Barrow."

She looks him up and down. 

"Hello, Mr Barrow, I'm Dorothy Ellis, sir." Like she's giving a recitation at the front of the class.

"Very pleased to meet you, Dorothy."

This gets a smile out of her, at least, and then she bounds back upstairs, evidently ignoring her mother's request that she not wake her sister.

"Not one for new people?" asks Thomas, and Daniel shakes his head. 

"Up to mischief, like."

* * *

After Marjorie is up from her nap, she and Dottie go out into the garden.

Upstairs, Richard and Ellie are sorting out the girls' clothes for the funeral. Downstairs, he and Daniel are having a drink.

"You and Dick are — you're close, right, I'm not misreading what's what?"

Bold question to ask if you haven't already figured out the answer.

"Awfully sharp, aren't you," Thomas says, neutral.

"Known him since we were ten," replies Daniel, "and erm, got a cousin moved to France, few years back."

For most people that wouldn't be something to admit to, and for the rest who would, probably not something to say with compassion.

* * *

Once dinner's over and he's assisted with clearing the table, Thomas sits on the floor with Marjorie, who makes him tea and bakes him scones through an elaborate series of gestures.

Richard's got him pegged; he does adore her.

* * *

It's a good half-day off, when all's said and done.

Grief is more manageable when it's shared.

* * *

"Can Mr Barrow come?"

"Oh, no, Master George, I —"

"Of course he can, Georgie," interrupts Lady Mary. "It's not every day you go off to school, is it?"

She looks at him with raised eyebrows, nods her head towards her son. If she wasn't also smiling he'd be extremely nervous.

That's a lie. He's extremely nervous as it is.

"...let me fetch my coat, your Ladyship."

* * *

"Go along with Grandpapa, we'll be up shortly," Lady Mary says, and after he's run off she turns to him.

"I can't tell you how appreciative I am, Barrow."

"Milady."

Ten years ago he'd never have imagined he'd be here — even if the goal all along, going into this line of work, was to climb the ranks and get into the good graces at a great house, actually having done it is nothing like what he expected. 

There were other goals between going in and now, of course, but he's so wrapped up in the family at this point that most of them aren't on his mind anymore, for better or worse.

(Most isn't all, though.)

"I've told you before, of course, but it's been rather a long time, hasn't it?"

He can't think of anything to say to that, so he just nods, lips pressed together.

"Anyhow, I thought you might like to know — when I put him to bed last night, he told me that he should miss his friend Mr Barrow very much."

Probably used those exact words, if Thomas knows the lad. 

...he might start crying.

"Barrow?"

They've begun closing the doors for third class.

Thomas swallows, takes a deep breath. "Downton'll be quite different without the children around, your Ladyship."

"Yes, I think it will be."

There's a call for all aboard just as they make it to the first class carriage — he helps her up, then tips his hat at Lord Grantham and steps back.

George benefits from the height of the carriage when he wraps his arms around Thomas's shoulders.

"Goodbye, Mr Barrow."

"Goodbye, Master George."

* * *

"Mr Barrow?"

It's Andy. 

"Come in," and once he does Thomas gestures to the chair on the other side of the desk.

He doesn't sit until Thomas raises his eyebrows at him. 

"Mr Barrow, I —"

"Will you be needing a reference, Mr Parker," he interrupts, voice even. It's a perfunctory question; he knows what the answer will be.

"How did you —"

"Daisy told Mrs Hughes when she gave hers, Mrs Hughes told me." That was yesterday, and he's spent the last twenty four hours wondering when this would happen.

"...no, I won't need a reference, thank you."

"And when will your last day be," because that's the more important thing, here, as far as the household goes.

"Er, a fortnight out?'

Manageable enough.

"Well, then, that's settled."

"Am I free to go, Mr Barrow?"

This is probably the most stilted conversation they've ever had.

Which is saying something.

"If you like."

Andy stands.

"But I was going to ask how things are at Yew Tree." 

It's like all of the tension in the room evaporates. Andy sits back down.

How things are: Andy's fixed the tractor up all on his own, Mr Mason's sow just had piglets, Daisy's canning a little of everything from the harvest, Willa laughed for the first time this morning. Andy has a lot to say about all of it, and though Thomas knows jack about farming he finds he does, too.

"Best of luck," he says, once they realise they've been talking — actually talking, not small talk — for about an hour. Reminds him of when they used to read together, but with none of the self-loathing.

That used to be so thick you could cut it with a knife, and aside from their industry it was all they really had in common for a while there. 

But it seems like there might be something else, now, too. He's glad for it, but it's too little, too late, at this point. Despite the best of intentions, they never really got close after everything that went down four years ago.

"You're still stuck with me for two weeks, Mr Barrow."

They smile.

Still, through all their brushes with it, this is probably the closest they'll ever get to friendship.

* * *

"I keep forgetting, Thomas, I'll… I'll put two settings at the table, or start to bring tea upstairs, and the moment I'm through the door every evening I call out to tell her I'm home."

Richard doesn't cry, not to his knowledge — Thomas has never seen it, at least. But he's… despondent, is the word, maybe, looks like he's lost.

He doesn't say anything.

"We never really got on before the war, y'know, wasn't til after Cecil…"

Thomas nods, takes his hand and squeezes it.

"Even still, never saw her very often before this year."

"Doesn't make it easy," murmurs Thomas.

Richard rests his head on his shoulder, silent.

* * *

Sybbie leaves a week after George does, and though he isn't invited along, she gives him an enthusiastic hug before she goes.

* * *

"This time next year I'll be the only one of our lot still up at the house, I suspect," says Thomas.

The Crawleys are to leave for Brancaster Castle the next day, and he has the night off in advance of it, which was kind of them. He's not exactly looking forward to two weeks of cleaning.

It does give him two more weeks to find a footman, though, so that's a blessing. They're trying to determine if Daisy needs replacing — there are only five upstairs, now, soon to be four, not including the younger children and the nannies.

The problem is, Mrs Patmore's thinking of retiring, and where that would leave them is up a creek.

"You don't have to be."

"Don't really think a butler can get away not living with the family, even if everyone else can, these days – "

But he falters.

Because that's not what Richard meant, is it.

They just stare at each other.

"I've worked at Downton for almost twenty years, you know," he says. _Why, why, why is his voice shaking._

He'd given Richard a more complete picture of his history at Downton a few weeks ago — one with less sting and venom in it. 

It helped that he wasn't sobbing the whole time, too.

"I do," Richard says, and Thomas thinks, _of course he does; he bloody left service himself and not even six months ago,_ "and that's a long while, but we've both got lives ahead of us, haven't we, and…"

And they could live them together.

That's what he's asking, Thomas knows, and he thinks his heart might leap out of his chest for the want of it, he wants it _so fucking badly,_ it's the only thing he's ever wanted in his life when it comes down to it, but… 

Thomas exhales in a huff.

It's one more decision to make. One more thing to worry about.

"I'd like you to think on it, Thomas."

"I'll think on it, but I can't… I won't promise anything."

"I'm asking you to think, not to promise."

* * *

The answer is clear within an hour.

The truth is leaving service has been on the back of his mind since Richard suggested it last year, and if there's ever a time to leave Downton it's now. Upstairs and downstairs are changing so much that he might as well be a part of it, and at this point it's better for the household if they do it quick, instead of peeling off one by one.

Besides, the oldest children are young enough that they can get attached to another butler, even if it kills him to think of it. Sybbie will be going home to another house soon, anyway; George may like him, but he could come to like someone else, especially if Thomas has a say in the hiring process. 

Somehow, this has become his main concern over the last few years.

* * *

"Still not a promise – "

Richard nuzzles his neck, and Thomas abandons his protest to hum contentedly.

"But it's something, isn't it, Mr Barrow."

God, is it nice to be doing this at a normal hour.

"And wouldn't you like to have me more often than every few weeks, Mr Ellis," teasing. He draws his hand from Richard's head down along his back, just a light touch with his fingertips.

It's satisfying to make him shiver.

"I'll have you every night if you let me — "

"Let you, I'll bloody ask for it — "

This gets a laugh out of him, and Richard moves a bit lower to press a kiss between his collar bones, brings his hand more to the inside of his thigh.

Then he stops and sits up abruptly. Thomas knows the look on his face well — it's suave and confident and amused, the most telltale sign that no matter what he's going to do next, he's going to enjoy himself while he does it.

Typically, what he's going to do next is enjoy Thomas, so he can't really complain.

"Ask me now, Thomas, why don't you?"

He walked right into that one, didn't he.

"If I can be sure how you'll answer."

It's a transparent ploy to buy time, because he has no idea what to ask for, assuming Richard's serious. They've got a whole night together, at least, so there are opportunities they haven't taken advantage of lately — they'd tried buggery back in January, for example, both ways, and nice as it was, it's not quite worth the hassle when you've only got a few hours to spare, so there's that. 'Course, it also means one of them is going to have to do something he's not quite as fond of, which isn't really what he wants, right now — 

"...Thomas, did you hear me?"

Evidently not.

"Can't just say I want you, can I?"

Richard laughs again.

_How did I end up with the most handsome man on Earth,_ Thomas thinks.

"You can, I suppose, though it's not really what I meant — "

Thomas reaches to stroke his thumb along his jaw, and Richard swallows.

Staring at his throat makes Thomas decide what he _does_ want.

"Well, then, I think I want you underneath me."

Richard clearly wasn't expecting that, but after a moment he's recovered. (Not for long, if Thomas can help it.) 

"Is that how one asks a question, these days, Mr Barrow?"

"Oh, my apologies — may I have you underneath me, please, Mr Ellis?"

Apparently, proper questions turn him on, though from the look on his face he didn't know it until just now.

"You may indeed."

* * *

In the morning they're slow to rise — it'll be dark for another hour, but he needs to be back at Downton by ten at the latest, so it's not like they can lie in bed forever.

Richard is upright, at least; Thomas nearly upright, slumped with his head on his chest. It's about a mirror image of how they started last night, funnily enough. 

"As far as leaving Downton goes," says Richard, sounding as if he means to go on, but he falters. 

Thomas nudges his hand with his head, because he's also stopped running his fingers through his hair.

"Meant what I said last night," he says, after Richard's gotten on with it. "Not going to give notice without having anything lined up, obviously, but I am going to give notice."

And then he'll move to York, and they'll set up home together, and whatnot.

"Well, that… I'm very glad to hear it."

They'll figure out the particulars later — what jobs to apply for, how he'll get to interviews, and of course they probably ought to have a good long conversation about combining their resources and living together without drawing attention to themselves, but right now they just get to be happy.

* * *

The morning after the Crawleys are back, there's a shouting match at breakfast, something about a dip in the market in London.

"...I don't know what you expected, given what went on ten years ago — "

"Really, Papa, I don't suppose you recall who broached the idea of 'moving money around in the stock exchange' — "

"My God, Mary, if you think I'm the one responsible for this — "

"Barrow, would you excuse us, please?"

That's Talbot.

Thomas goes to wait outside the door. The next thirty minutes are like one continuous wince.

* * *

"Mr Carson's not always been very wise with his investments," Mrs Hughes is saying. They're alone in the dining room this evening — him, her, and Anna. "But Lady Grantham says there's no risk of losing the pension, nor the cottage, so I suppose all else we can do is wait and see."

Anna nods. "And… you'll still be leaving, Mrs Hughes," she says, hesitant.

"Yes, I think so. It's about time."

"It'll be rather odd," says Anna, "not seeing you every day."

The whole year's been odd — it's like everyone decided to grow up at once, hit all the milestones one after the other. It's just him and Mrs Patmore still living in the servants' quarters, though ideally a footman will be moving in soon and they're closer to finding an assistant cook — even with room and board provided it's proving difficult to get the right person. As for a lady's maid, they've all agreed that Anna won't be replaced: Phyllis is taking on her work. 

Seems like Lady Mary might be coming around to her husband's side of things, anyway. They'll train up one of the housemaids, just in case she doesn't, but things have changed.

He hasn't yet told anyone he's decided to leave.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll do a fine job looking after things, Mrs Bates, and of course you can come down for a visit anytime you like, either of you."

He thinks she means Mr Bates, but she's looking at him, actually.

"Of course we will," says Anna, smiling, albeit sadly, "won't we, Mr Barrow?"

"Of course, Mrs Hughes."

"Well," she says, and if he's not mistaken her eyes are shining. "I suppose I ought to be getting on." 

They walk her to the back door.

Once she's gone, Anna turns to him and says, "I always dreamed of it, back when I first entered service." She laughs a little. "The head housekeeper might as well have been the Queen of England when I was a girl, but it's different than I thought, now I am one… I did always imagine I'd marry and have children, but they were rather separate thoughts, work and family, and if it weren't for what's just happened in the market… Mr Bates and I had always thought someday we might…"

She trails off. 

It's a sore subject for both of them.

"Funny, that," says Thomas, "I know exactly what you mean." 

* * *

Three weeks later, there's panic over the market in America.

* * *

"They're saying it won't affect England."

He took a morning off, this time, and they're having this conversation over breakfast. Richard is looking over the Yorkshire Post with an impassive expression.

"Well, that's rubbish, it's already affected Downton."

And from the way Branson's been talking, Downton, with more money in land than in stocks, is faring better than most of the other remaining great houses are. 

People are always going to need food, after all.

"Don't suppose now is the right time to be looking for work, then," Thomas adds, sullen. He's already had a request for an interview retracted.

"No," says Richard, frowning now, "no, I suppose not."

* * *

Economically speaking, the second things look like they're picking up they get worse; personally speaking it's the other way round.

Of course it's awful that the nation is in shambles, but Richard's actually gotten a promotion and at Downton there's an influx of enquiries from folks laid off from other estates, so he's not too torn up about it.

* * *

They do have to put his resignation on ice, though. No one wants to take anyone on in times of uncertainty, and he's certainly not the only man trying to leave a service position, so there's more competition than they'd bargained for.

* * *

"Couldn't you invite him?"

They'll be holding a dinner downstairs on Boxing Day — informal, just one last thing before everyone who's left for greener pastures (literally, if you're Andy and Daisy) can get on with their lives for good. It's something Mrs Patmore insisted upon, given that this will be her last Christmas at Downton. Everyone will probably come for that reason alone.

Mrs Hughes and Anna apparently got permission from Lady Grantham several months ago.

"Invite who?"

Anna gives him a look.

Thomas is racking his brain for an embarrassing amount of time before he realises.

He looks at his hands, speaks slowly.

"Not too sure that'd be appropriate, Mrs Bates." It's a pain to call her that, but it was a pain for everyone else to call him Mr Barrow, so it's fair retribution. She doesn't always respond to it, either, which is probably sad for someone who's been married for so long, but his understanding is that only her husband called her that.

Probably odd for her, actually, having other people call her what turned out to be a pet name. 

"There is someone, then?" she asks, a little mischievous.

He's never told her straight out because he'd figured it was like everything else in his life — an open secret.

The consequence of that is this, he supposes, which is guilt. That's familiar; he's fine with it. What isn't familiar is the desire to run his mouth and say everything at once, now that she's asked.And he won't do that, he's not about to embarrass himself, but he does feel like he could if he wanted to, like it'd be safe, no negative outcomes.

Which is equally unfamiliar.

"There is, yes."

At the other end of the dining table, Phyllis looks up from mending a dress slip and smiles.

Anna is smiling, too, and conspiratorial: "is that all you have to say about it, Mr Barrow?"

"For now, I think." Because he doesn't trust himself not to gush, not yet, but judging by the look on her face, she's not going to let it go anytime soon.

* * *

The footman and the assistant cook are moved in and settled the week before Christmas.

Coincidentally, that's about the time that George and Sybbie are back. Neither of them had any trouble making friends, sounds like, and they're both excellent students, although he overhears that they've had a disagreement about what goes on during a chapel service. 

And that's hilarious, but what matters is that they both still like him.

He hadn't realised he was anxious about that until George had run up to him during afternoon tea and said to him outright, "I did miss you very much."

* * *

It's decided that he'll go down to York late on the 26th and come back up early on the 28th, when the family is at Brampton. He's forgoing time in January to make it work out, and come then he'll probably be sorry, but Richard isn't working around Christmas for the first time in his life — even if he doesn't have the same luxury, can't make the day of, he wants to be a part of it somehow.

He'll call it his gift to Mr Carson.

* * *

Thomas is keeping an eye on his watch; his bag is already packed and stowed in the pantry; nonetheless, he's enjoying himself. 

'Everyone' did show up, including the staff from the village. The dining room probably hasn't been this crowded since 1910, although back then it wouldn't have had two infants and a four year old in it, and what those three lack in physical space they make up for in verve.

Nancy, for example, has a habit of grabbing things and not letting go of them, which is inconvenient for everyone with a jacket, himself included. 

Better him than someone with a blouse on — Anna keeps looking over to make sure she's behaving, and Thomas just shakes his head at her every time. The girl is nine months old and has no idea what's going on around her half the time, anyway. 

She does, however, laugh when he bounces her up and down, so he hopes she at least finds him good company.

And her mother is clearly grateful for the break.

They're all halfway through 'I Saw Three Ships', led by a talented housemaid at the piano, when the bell for the back door rings — about five people who no longer work here make to answer it, but Anna scolds them lightheartedly.

When he tries to hand Nancy back to her to get it himself, she waves him off, too.

"Did anyone step out?"

"Not that I know of."

But they've not been paying attention, really. Anna shrugs and heads to the door; everyone else goes back to singing.

She's back only a moment later, reaching to take the baby from his arms. It's a joint effort getting her to uncurl her little fist. "Someone to see you, Mr Barrow."

He _didn't._

* * *

He did.

"Thought I'd stop by," he says, smiling. He says it like he would say he was just in the neighborhood, as though he didn't have to take two trains and a cab to get here.

"Couldn't wait, what, four hours?" replies Thomas. He's _thrilled._

Then they're kissing, out of sight, just in the shadow of the porch lamp.

* * *

"Well, we're off," says Thomas, standing in the doorway to the dining room, and then he wants to kick himself for the slip.

"'We' who?" 

Thank you, Mrs Patmore.

Richard steps out from the passage in a move reminiscent of a character in a comedy sketch. 

"Some of you remember Mr Richard Ellis, I'm sure, from a couple of years ago — "

Clearly they do. Everyone who would is looking back and forth between them, dumbfounded — and smiling, in several notable cases. Actually, most of them are smiling. The rest just sort of look confused, like they can't see what's special about a simple introduction.

This is simultaneously the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to him and the most satisfying. 

"Served as a valet to His Majesty during the '27 Yorkshire tour," says Richard, and he probably knows just as well that it doesn't need explaining, but it is sort of nice to rub it in. He feels like a boy on a schoolground: _ha, ha, my lover worked in Buckingham Palace for the King of bloody England._ "Mr Barrow and I kept in touch."

That's one way of putting it.

"Right. Well. Merry Christmas, have a happy New Year, and all that, lovely to see everyone back again," because he caught up with everyone who matters over dinner and he was meant to be leaving shortly, anyway, but now he absolutely has to because there's a cab waiting outside.

They tip their hats and head out.

* * *

By the time they're at Richard's it's past midnight, but it would have been, anyway.

"I can't believe you did that — "

It's the fifth or sixth time he's said it, but this time Richard takes him by his braces and kisses him, which is a better way of being told to shut up than most.

"Did you mind, terribly?" he says, once they've parted.

"Invited you in, didn't I?"

"That you did, Mr Barrow."

"Christ, their faces — "

Turns out feeling smug makes for a good night together.

* * *

If someone had told him a decade ago that ten years out he'd be butler of Downton Abbey, that he'd have a steady companion who loves him for and despite everything, that the children of Lady Mary and Lady Sybil and Lady Edith would adore him, he'd have thought it was a cruel joke, but it turns out that that's what's happened.

All told and come what may, it's been a good year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ORIGINAL NOTES (OCTOBER 14, 2019)**  
1) THAT'S A WRAP FOLKS thanks for coming on this journey with me. i hope you enjoyed yourself and did not gradually become more disappointed with my character and plot choices.  
2) i had so many chances in this fic to actually do more with the upstairs characters who aren't Literal Children and/or babies i made up and i just.... didn't.... sorry  
3) i also literally just forgot carson existed until i was writing this chapter and then i was just like, meh, and half-heartedly threw him in at the end, despite how many opportunities he has to show up given the plot of this entire story. if you're a big carson fan....... sorry?  
4) i don't even care about christmas and also it's october but christmas is at the end of the year and thus had to be at the end of this fic, which then means i have to go all hallmark special. sorry again if you hate that. i actually really loved writing it.  
5) this is the longest fic i've ever written and i did it in two weeks after only being familiar with the canon for... drumroll... two additional weeks. downton abbey is a parasite in my brain.  
6) there may be an epilogue in the works but it's not like all's fine in dandy in england for the next 15 years, shoutout to peak unemployment and another world war, so we'll see if i decide that anyone would actually care to read that. let me know in the comments if you would! wow i feel like a youtube personality  
7) epilogue or no, i am definitely not done with these two (whiplash-free porn outtakes coming soon to an archive near you) nor with this fandom, nor with the two (2) officially, textually gay men added to the canon as of the movie, bringing the grand total to three. that is, if you don't count peter pelham who was definitely gay but never on screen and then he died, so like, you shouldn't count him, but one of the most egregious acts of homophobia in this series is his lack of inclusion (i'm not serious but also i am) so he's like, an honorable mention. you might also be thinking: what about the duke of crowborough. the fact is i'm not convinced he's gay necessarily. anyway, congrats downton abbey on your three and a half gay male characters  
8) these notes are off the wall because i've got like bronchitis or something and i've had so much cold medicine but i've edited these chapters a bazillion times so hopefully there are no errors, but PLEASE let me know if you see something off  
9) again, THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING and giving your kudos and comments and bookmarking and chatting, i really do appreciate every single one of you.

**Author's Note:**

> i am also on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com/)!


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